


Three Nights on the Run

by BrienneofThrace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Banter, Canon Compliant, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Romance, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrienneofThrace/pseuds/BrienneofThrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After fleeing from Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood with Podrick Payne, Jaime and Brienne work out some feelings and tensions in unexpected ways. <br/>Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Well, this is my first ever fic for ASOIAF, despite Jaime/Brienne being one of my favorite pairings of all time for almost two years. 
> 
> I'd be super grateful for any feedback and/or constructive criticism you can offer.

                                                        

Jaime’s eyes snap open as soon as he hears the first soft whimpers out of the sleeping figure beside him. He hadn’t been asleep, not truly. He was merely resting his eyes, which were heavy in his head. He had, after all, promised to keep watch over young Podrick Payne for the night.

He volunteered for the job, despite his own very real exhaustion, for the poor wench had clearly been stretched so far beyond her physical and mental limits, that she’d seemed likely to collapse at any moment. She was perhaps one of the strongest people on the bloody continent, but at that moment, in the refuge of the cave, he could see she'd hit a wall. Whether she was to fall into unconsciousness or into sobs, Jaime had not felt particularly well equipped to deal with either, and so as soon as they’d stumbled across the little alcove between the rocks and laid the unconscious form of Podrick Payne beneath some blankets, he’d demanded that she too get some sleep.  

Being the stubborn wench that she is, she had tried to protest, asking “What if Pod-” but Jaime cut her off.

He quickly assured her that no further harm would come to the boy this night, gave his word that he'd wake her if he heard even the slightest noise and ushered her over to a blanket of her own, refusing to hear any more about it.

For the next few minutes, Brienne had propped herself up on her elbows and stared down at the sleeping lad, quite still for a time.

Jaime kept his green eyes on her as she gazed at the boy and suddenly, she was not so still. Though he was a good bit away from her, sitting on the other side of the fire, he detected the slight shaking of her shoulders. She was turned away, her back to him so he could not see her face, but a few angry swipes of her hand up to her cheeks told him she was crying.

Not knowing what to do or say, he’d watched her in rather uncomfortable silence until she settled down beside the lad and fell asleep.  

Whether the tears she shed were for the unconscious squire before her, with the angry hangman’s welts around his neck, or for the Hunt knight they’d not been able to save from the Brotherhood, or for very nearly dragging Jaime to his death as well, he cannot not say. ** **  
****

Knowing the wench and her sickeningly honorable sensibilities, it was likely all three and more. Hells, she probably shed some for Lady Catelyn as well, filled with guilt over what the foolish girl undoubtedly deemed a great betrayal.

Stupid, soft wench. The Stark woman who had inspired such loyalty in her was long gone. All that remained in her was rage, hate, and vengeance wrapped up in a shell of a body, a body which was probably ordering the Brotherhood to track them down and bring them back to the noose at this very moment.

Though any sane man could tell that Catelyn Tully was well and truly gone, Jaime had  glimpsed that flash of self-loathing in those astonishing blue eyes as Brienne cut her way through a dozen fierce Brothers, keeping Pod and Jaime behind her and refusing to let the onslaught of blades get near them.

He’d done his best with his ever-improving left hand, but it had been her blade that got them out, that held off the onslaught of pursuers as Jaime helped the half-conscious squire onto a horse.

He’d seen the look of  horror that washed over Brienne’s homely features as she’d slashed out with her steel at the reanimated corpse of  the woman she’d sworn to serve and protect, shouting at her not to touch them, desperate and fearful and never loosening her grip on her sword.

The wench had barely spoken to him since they’d made their escape. Hours into their ride, they’d finally slowed their fleeing horses to a halt, sure that, at least for the moment, any pursuers were far behind. Then, they'd briefly discussed Pod's condition.

They both took a look at his wounds and agreed he would likely live. They did their best to get some water down his throat, and were on their way again, riding quickly and quietly as the sky darkened.

Once they stopped for the night, at a little alcove between the rocks, there had been the brief exchange about who would keep watch, and that was it.

She’d met his eyes only once since they fought their way to the horses and made their escape, and that was with considerable effort on his part to catch hers.

In the fleeting moment he’d managed to grab hold of her gaze, he witnessed her large blue eyes swimming with pain, guilt, shame and a number of less discernable emotions. She’d determinedly refused to look at him since, and he’d given up trying to get her to, unprepared as he was to form any words of comfort.

He supposed in the morning, he’d have to attempt to talk to her about it, though the thought brought him no great pleasure. As far as he was concerned, he bore no ill feeling toward the wench for her attempt to lead him into a trap.

Of course, initially he’d been shocked and furious as the realization of her treachery dawned on him and he came to understand that he was trapped among a slew of men eager to see his head removed from his body and impaled upon a spike. Those feelings had hall but faded now.

In the end, she’d fought just as fiercely to keep them away from him as she did the boy, and had not shown the slightest inkling of concern for herself.

He’d seen the utter relief on her expression when they’d assessed the boy’s condition and agreed Pod would live. He had seen her gazing down at him with an expression that was utterly adoring and bordering on maternal.

It was clear the wench loved her little squire deeply, and Jaime Lannister was more familiar than anyone of the things one will do for love.

She’d had no choice, that much was clear, and he could not fault her for doing what she had to in order to save the boy’s life. Hell, there was a time where he’d have burned the world to the ground for Cersei without a tenth of the guilt Brienne was going through.

And to top it all off, it was the quest he sent her on that put her and the lad in such danger, that left them both with those horrible red welts on their necks and the poor wench’s face hideously scarred.

Brienne had made only choice possible and she’d gotten him out of there in the end. He held no grudge.

If only conveying that message swiftly and bluntly could be done with any sort of ease.  

_Relax, wench, all’s forgiven. Fancy some swordplay? I’ve improved my form with this hand enough to take you, I’ll bet._

Not bloody likely.

The way she carried herself, as though her shoulders were breaking under the weight of her guilt, the way her blue eyes stared despondently out across the land as they’d urged their horses forward, as if she were a thousand miles away in a place of utter darkness, the way she avoided his gaze as though she could not bear to look at him, all led him to believe any conversation about recent events would be long and messy and full of emotions he was not adequately prepared to deal with. 

Just thinking about it had exhausted his already weary mind and Pod seemed to be sleeping soundly, so he figured it couldn’t hurt to simply lie down for a while, just to rest his eyes.

Fighting one-handed through a horde of angry men determined to see him hang and then riding hard all day to escape them had taken its toll on his body. He laid out a bedroll a few feet away from Brienne and the boy and laid on his back, staring up at the stars visible through a gap in the rocks.

 

But of course, just as he was just about to drift off, when the wench began to whimper in her sleep, startling him wide awake.

“Brienne,” he hisses. “What is it?”

She starts toss about, the urgency of her whimpers and moans increasing.

  
“Pod!” she screams, thrashing wildly. “No, Pod, please! Leave him be! He’s just a boy! You can’t do this! Please, My Lady. Please.”

  
Jaime is sitting up now, staring down at her as she cries out desperately in her sleep. He hears movement on her other side, and sees that young Podrick Payne is attempting to sit up as well.

  
“Ser...I mean...M-my Lady? Are you-” the boy asks, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He looks worried and Jaime can’t blame him. ** **  
****

Their girl, the maiden who has always proven herself capable of remaining cool under the most perilous and dire of circumstances, is in such obvious distress that it’s puzzling to them both.

“Please,” Brienne cries with a sob, and Jaime is horrified to realize tears are leaking down her broad face as she tosses about in a tangle of blankets. “Please, don’t hurt him!”

  
“It’s alright, wench,” Jaime says, voice firm and rather loud, hoping to penetrate the nightmare she’s facing.“The lad is fine. You saved him. He’s even awake and getting himself all fussed about you. Settle down.”

  
She continues to thrash and Pod struggles to rise from his bed, eager to help his Lady.  Jaime glances up to see the boy’s weak arms trembling in the effort of supporting his weight as he attempts to come to her aid.  
“‘S’alright, boy. Save your strength,” Jaime says quietly. “It’s just a nightmare. She's alright.” ** **  
****

More loudly, he calls down to Brienne, his voice reverberating off the rock faces around them, “The lad is fine, Brienne. Sleep soundly,” but she continues to writhe anxiously, lost in a world of despair inside her own head.

Cautiously, he moves towards her and reaches down, putting his hand on her muscular arm, just below the shoulder, and squeezing gently. ** **  
****

Leaning down towards her ear, he quietly assures her, “Pod is _fine_ , Brienne. He’s here. We’re well away from Stoneheart and the Brotherhood. We’re  all safe. You needn’t worry, lass.”

The touch on her arm seems to calm her. She stops thrashing about, though she is still whimpering softly, her face contorting in obvious distress ** **.  
****

“Relax, wench,” Jaime soothes and he begins to stroke her upper arm softly, back and forth between her shoulder and her elbow, gently easing her into a stiller sleep.

He continues to rub her arm for a few minutes, gently repeating calming words until her breathing slows and her features are once again peaceful.

Assured that whatever dark dreams were plaguing her guilty conscience have been driven off, he makes to go back to his blanket, intending to catch a bit of proper sleep before dawn, now that the boy has proven himself well enough to wake up and stir.

He has just about managed to lie back down, when Brienne cries out once more.

“Hyle! Hyle, I’m... sorry. I didn’t mean for...I’m so sorry...I tried...I _tried_...”

Jaime sits up once more, staring over at Brienne who is starting to toss again. He hesitates for a moment, then sighs.

 _Only one thing for it, if any of us want to be rested enough for the long journey awaiting us in the morn,_ he thinks.

Picking up his blanket, he crosses the short distance between them and lays it down beside her. He places a hand on her arm once again, and finds that she falls still almost immediately. He lowers himself down beside her, softly moving his clumsy left hand up and down her arm until her low cries begin to subside.

He yawns widely, hoping this new arrangement might permit him a few hours rest. Almost of its’ own accord, he finds his hand slipping passed the relative safety of her arm and snaking across her hard, muscular stomach. As it settles somewhere just above her navel, she falls completely still and silent.

A flicker of smile crossed his features, making his mouth twitch. _She’ll most likely murder me over this in the morning,_ he thinks _,_  but cannot seem to muster up the fear he probably shouldas he slowly drifts off into a surprisingly comfortable sleep.

____

“Jaime. Jaime. ** _Jaime._** ”

He’s vaguely aware of the voice calling his name, but he had been in a deep and pleasant sleep that he was loathe to come out of. As consciousness pulls him into waking, he becomes unpleasantly aware of the pre-dawn chill in the air, and much more pleasantly aware of the warm body he's pressed against.

Stretching slightly for a moment, he then pulls the figure closer, eager for the warmth it’s providing. Sleepily, still half-conscious, really, he starts to move the hand that had been resting on her waist upwards, vaguely thinking that there’s surely a breast up there that could use a good squee-

“JAIME. What. Are. You. _Doing_?” hisses the voice more sharply.

Realization of where he is and who he is with begins to dawn on him.

 _What the blazes was I thinking_?

He begins to loosen his grip on the large-bodied wench on his own, but apparently he isn’t moving fast enough, for he’s suddenly jolted fully into consciousness by the hard jab of an elbow into his ribs.

“Ouch! Bloody hell, wench,” he scowls, clutching the spot where she’d jabbed him and sitting up.

“What the...what were you...w..?” she stutters, sitting up and staring at him with suspicious accusation in her large blue eyes.

A wave of embarrassment washes over him as he recalls his sleep-deprived decision to hold her close to stave off her nightmares.

“You were...you were.... having...bad dreams,” he explains lamely, cursing himself internally for sounding like a sad little village’s saddest idiot.

Then he curses himself again for caring enough to feel embarrassed. He’s a Lannister, for gods’ sakes.

Brienne is staring at him in disbelief, accusation still in her eyes. “Bad dreams.” she repeats dubiously, with an expression that very clearly reads “ _I’ve never heard such a load of shit in all my life.”_

His embarrassment quickly turns to annoyance and defensive anger as he looks at her disbelieving and mistrustful expression. _Like I’d have the slightest interest in touching you, you great brute of a woman_ , he thinks, scathingly.

“It’s true,” he snaps. “You were crying out like a bloody ghast and neither me nor your injured squire would’ve gotten a moment’s rest if I hadn’t done it. It was the only thing that shut up your bloody moaning. Ask him yourself!”

Jaime rises to his feet grumpily, pointing at Pod, who is sitting up under his blankets.

The boy flushes hard at once upon being brought into it. He looks as though he’d quite like to sink into the rock and never be looked at again.

Brienne, who had been focused on staring warily at Jaime, snaps her head around and cries out, “Pod!” She too, is on her feet in an instant, rushing to his side. “You’re awake! How do you feel?”

“I...fine, m’lady. A bit sore, but fine. And...and it..it’s true, what Ser Jaime says, My Lady. You were... talking in your sleep and everything.” Pod adds apologetically, bowing his head.  

Her back is to him, but he can almost hear the sound of her jaw dropping. A hand slaps over her mouth and he sees a red flush creep up the back of her neck.

“Oh...I,” she says, struggling for words and Jaime feels what is probably a very immature amount of satisfaction at her embarrassment.

“I mean, it’s..it’s alright. I used to have awful dreams too, after Stannis attacked King’s Landing...awful ones..about wildlife and Tyrion...and,” Pod stumbles before trailing off, his boyish face a bright shade of red as he seems to realize he isn’t helping to ease his Lady’s embarrassment.

Brienne slowly turns around and he can feel her eyes on him, but finds today he no longer cares to meet them. Not looking at either of her or the boy, he strides over to the fire, which had died out in the night, and begins to work at getting it going again.

“I suppose broth is in order this morning,” he says, reaching into a bag of supplies. “Unlikely you’ll be swallowing solid food for a while, young Payne,” he says, struggling keeping his voice even and cheerful.

He pulls an onion out the bag and begins to slice it with rather more fervor than truly necessary. That, combined with the awkwardness of his golden hand and unskilled left one, ensures that he is making a proper mess of things, but he carries on determinedly.

He hears her footsteps approaching but he continues to chop without looking up at her. He hears a small noise, as if she is about to speak, but then she is quiet again, though she continues to stand over him.

 _What do you want, wench?_ he thinks to himself in frustration, though he refuses to look up at her.

He’s frustrated with his hand for being a clumsy piece of shit, and with the wench for assuming the worst of him and looking at him with such mistrustful, accusing blue eyes, and more than anything else, he’s frustrated, and disgusted with himself for caring about her bloody opinion of him.

Why should it matter what the wench thinks, anyway? True, he had assumed after Harrenhal and Oathkeeper and their escape from the Brotherhood, that she would trust him with her bloody life as he trusted her with his and not jump to stupid conclusions after he...after he...cozied up to her in the middle of the night... unasked...while she was asleep.

As a particularly harsh wave of anger washes over him, he slices down with his knife and nicks his finger.

He curses loudly, his exclamation echoing off the cave walls as he brings the finger up to his mouth to suck at the small cut.

 _Good plan, Lannister,_ he thinks,   _Go ahead and lose your other fucking hand over your wounded feelings about a giant of wench and her scornful opinions of you. Brilliant idea._

“Are you alright?” Brienne asks in alarm, squatting down next to him, attempting to take his cut hand in her large ones. He moves it out of her grasp and grunts “Fine,” without looking at her.

He feels her staring at him for a long moment before she reaches out to pick up some of his unevenly chopped pieces of onion.

“I...I could do this, if you like,” she says timidly.

She then moves from squatting to kneeling beside him, and reaches out a gentle, cautious hand towards the knife. He can feel her eyes searching his face, but he only stares down at the onion for a moment before thrusting the hilt of the knife into her hand.

“Be my guest,” he says shortly, getting to his feet. He reaches into the bag and dumps a small armful of potatoes and carrots at her feet before striding out to the mouth of their alcove.

What the _hell_ is wrong with him? As he kicks half-heartedly at a rock, a self-deprecating laugh passes his lips.

Why is he so bloody annoyed by the stupid wench’s reaction? There isn’t an ounce of logic to it and that annoys him thoroughly.

He’d been more than willing to forgive her leading him into a death trap, and yet now here he is, almost _boiling_ with anger over her reaction to him holding her. 

_His feelings are hurt._

It’s blatantly obvious but painful to acknowledge. He knows he’s always had shit for honor, but this naive and noble young wench with her silly ideals about knighthood have been so tied to his (likely-futile) quest to redeem himself in some way that the accusation in her eyes stings.  

She is the one person in all of Westeros who had ever shown signs of really seeing who he was, who he _wants_ to be and actually believing him capable of regaining some semblance of honor.

That she could believe he was... _taking advantage_ was a bit like a knife to the gut.

_Get over it, Lannister. Another few days and you’ll be in Lannister territory, and it’ll be safe for you to part company. She’ll continue on the senseless quest you’ve set her on and you’ll go back to your duties as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and none of it’ll mean a damn thing._

He stays out there for a while, freezing his arse off as he sits on a cold rock and watches the sunrise moodily. He knows he should be inside, packing up their things to prepare to ride out, saddling the horses or finding some other way of making himself useful, but he doesn’t do so.

Instead he sits and sulks like some chastised bloody child and waits until the call for breakfast comes.

“Jaime,” she says softly, standing behind him. “There’s...there is some hot broth inside.”

“Is there?” he says flatly.

Enough time has passed that he’s ready to stare her in the face, and he does, careful to keep no expression there.

Brienne is not doing the same. He reads a full bloody saga in those eyes of hers, those astonishingly blue eyes; confusion and guilt chief among them.

“Y-yes,” she says, “It’s not much, but it’ll keep us going for a while. It’ll be another long ride again today, I expect.”

She offers a tentative smile, quite tight though he catches a glimpse of prominent front teeth between her wide lips.

Still more miffed than he cares to admit, even to himself, he refuses to return it.

As he looks up at her without returning it, hurt and confusion knot her features.

 _Good,_ he thinks pettily.

Still, he can’t bring himself to keep looking at the sad look on her face; a look that reminds him at once of how young, and good, and pure she is and how old and bitter and cruel he has become.

“You’d...you’d better go eat. We’ve put out the fire, so it’ll be getting cold soon,” she says in a small voice.

  
“Right” he says, getting to his feet and walking back into the little alcove, feeling like an utter bastard.  
  
_______________________


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two!  
> Wherein Jaime is somewhat less of jerk but still should probably consider some sensitivity training...

It was another long, hard day of crossing unpleasant terrain in wet and chilly conditions.  Normally, Jaime might have tried to liven up the ride with a song or two but today he was content, or at least determined, to keep his silence. He felt the wench’s eyes on him often as they rode and tried not to think about her.

He knew it was silly to hold a grudge over so silly a thing, after all they’d been through; after all the times he’s saved her life and she’s saved his, all the horrors they’ve endured side by side, but he barely spoke a word to her all day.

At one point, Pod worked up the nerve to ask him about Tyrion, which put a brief end to the unpleasant silence.

He gave the boy a softened version of the truth and assured him that his brother was likely drinking himself blind at the finest whorehouse across the narrow sea as they spoke.

Brienne gave a little cough of disapproval at that and he assumed she felt he shouldn’t discuss such unsavory things with the lad, but Jaime ignored it. The boy has spent enough time in King’s Landing that he’d have had to be blind and deaf not to know about the existence of whores.

Besides, the look of relief on the boy’s face was plain, and he even let out a chuckle at the image.

Jaime went on to tell Pod a couple of amusing stories about his little brother, as the lad seemed to admire him so much. Pod laughed heartily at each punchline, but Jaime felt a painful twisting in his gut as he tried to fight off the memory of his last meeting with Tyrion and recall just the good ones.

At one point as he spoke, his voice audibly cracked with emotion and Brienne instantly turned to look at him. He had no desire for her concern though, and carried on with his tale in a slightly too-cheerful tone, gesturing emphatically at him as though Pod was the only one there.

By nightfall, they found a small cave, and after leaving Pod with the horses and checking to make sure it was unoccupied, they settled in.  

They sated their hunger on a quiet supper of some salted pork and some apples they found en route, and turned in for the night.

Brienne settled down next to Pod and Jaime chose a spot to lay his bedroll that was about as far from the wench as he could possibly get in the small cave and quickly fell asleep.

 ****_________________________________________________** **  
  


There she goes again. Seven hells. Cursing the gods he doesn’t believe in, Jaime scowls and rolls over, trying to ignore the rapidly increasing whimpers coming from where the wench lays sleeping.

No way is he getting involved again. No way.

Her accusatory eyes still burn in his mind and he is still more than a little bitter about it, logic be damned. He has no intention of having a repeat performance of this morning.

_You’re on your own, lass._

He tries to tune her out.

_Everyone has nightmares. It will pass._

She’s made it clear she doesn’t need his help on this front. However, turning his back on her does nothing to drown out her desperate words of anguish,

“ _Please_ , My Lady. Please. I swear to you, he’s changed. He _sent_ me after your daughters... a fine sword...keep them safe. Saved...my life... shown...highest honor. Don’t make...cannot make...POD! No, please. Pod. Pod!” she cries out once again, reaching out towards the cavernous ceiling in her sleep.  

Jaime feels something strange stir inside of him as he listens to her words. He was never much opposed to choosing denial as a method of ignoring things he’d rather not acknowledge. It had served him well in the past.

But as he takes in Brienne’s desperate cries for mercy, even he cannot fool himself to thinking the wench can be talking about anyone other than him.

His stomach clenches oddly as takes in the meaning of her words, and he risks a glance over at her sleeping form, writhing and distraught beyond all imagining.

There had been nothing to forgive, as far as he saw it, but hearing her earnest words about touch him more deeply than he is comfortable with.

Perhaps he had not destroyed whatever esteem she might have held him in with his foolish decision the previous night.

 _Highest honor_ , she’d said. His heart feels oddly full at the thought. ** **  
****

The fearless wench had stood up against whatever monstrous and vengeful bit of soul remained in Catelyn Stark’s body and defended his honor.

The sincerity and urgency of her words is almost too moving to bear.

He is also sure the wench would be humiliated beyond belief at this unintentional invasion of her privacy.

Sighing, he gets up, strides over to her flailing body and nudges her hard in the thigh with his boot.

“Wake up, wench,” he says loudly. “You’re at it again.”

Touched he may be, but he will not cross any lines that might lead her to stare at him with that shocked and wary expression ever again.

He nudges at her with his foot once more, but she doesn’t wake, just lies there muttering, “I cannot betray him. I cannot,” and crying out for Pod and Hyle.  

Unable to bear it any longer, he bends down and shakes her shoulders roughly.

“Come now, girl. It’s just a dream. Wake up,” he says.

Her eyes snap open and she gasps, sitting up with a start.

“What? What is it?”

“Easy now. You were dreaming again. Loudly. Pod’s fine, wench. Look, he’s right there.” he says, inclining his head toward the sleeping squire. “Then again, there’s a fair chance he could be _dead_ , seeing as he hasn’t stirred, despite you yelling for him like some mad harpy,” he adds flatly.

She stares at him, open-mouthed and absolutely mortified.

“Oh...I...I’m sorry,” she says quietly, staring intently at the floor. Even by the low light of the fire, he can see her cheeks blazing red. “Was I...very loud?”

He sees her wipe quickly at the wetness on her cheeks and a wave of pity and guilt washes over him for being so blunt.

“No,” he lies. “Not very. I was just...” he trailed off. _Being a bastard_. “I was awake and heard you, is all.”

She bites her lip, eyes pooling with pain. She turns away from him, and gazes over at the fire that is still burning but starting to fizzle out. After a long moment of silence, she says in a small, cracking voice,

“I can’t get the images out of my head. Them hanging there, kicking for their lives, losing the last of their breath, while she just _watched_. Her face so torn up, her flesh...like a corpse... but it was _her_. You saw her. Lady Catelyn.

“I tried so hard to tell her the truth, but nothing I said could sway her. It was me she wanted, but them who suffered. Pod. Hyle.  Poor Hyle. He was only there because of me.  And I couldn’t save him,” she murmurs softly, tears in her eyes. She is staring at the fire, speaking more to herself and to the flames than she is to him.

His stomach twists at her words of regret and self-loathing. He wishes she’d stop. He recalled times on their travels together when he had to fight to get two words out of the stoic wench. If only she’d be silent now, for her pain weighs heavily on him and he knows not what to do.

But now the floodgates are open and she’s spouting off feelings like there’s no tomorrow and he’s sure he should be saying something to soothe her, but finding such words were a lot easier when she’d been unconscious and unable to hear him stumbling over them.

He hasn’t the slightest idea what to say, never having truly learned how speak gentle words. Jests and japes flew easily from his lips, like swallows flitting about on a summer breeze. Witty retorts came to him without any sort of effort at all, straight and swift as a marksman’s arrows, but finding words of comfort had never been a strength of his.

When she pauses to catch her breath and stare into the fire, he takes his chance to speak regardless. Feeling as though he’s riding a swollen river without a paddle, he begins.

“It- it wasn’t your fault, my lady,” he says stiffly. “The Catelyn Stark standing in that cave was fueled by darkness and vengeance. She and the men who followed her are the only ones to blame.

“Hunt was a grown man. You cannot hold yourself responsible for his fate. You fought with much valor and you saved your young squire. None of us should have made it out of there alive, but your skill and determination got the lad out. You saved Pod,  Brienne, and you saved me-”

She had been listening with wide eyes, full of pain and disbelief as he spoke, but at those last words she looks truly horror stricken. She buries her face in her hands.

“You?” she says, aghast. “Jaime, you should not have even _been_ there. If I had not deceived you, led you there, after swearing an oath-”

“Hush. That’s not-” he says sharply, but the stubborn wench cuts him off, blubbering out apologies he doesn’t want or need to hear.  

“I _tricked you_ , after you trusted me to...to-” she lets out a dry sob that tugs at his heart painfully, face still hidden behind her hands.

“I’m so...I’m so, so sorry, Jaime,” she continues. “She was _hanging_ him. An innocent, brave boy. The life was leaving him and he’s so young and eager and good and I just...I could not let him-couldn’t let _them_ -”

He seizes her hands and pulls them away from her face, wincing at the sight of the tears in her beautiful blue eyes.

“Stop it, Brienne. It’s alright. I know exactly why you did what you did. I understand. All’s forgiven. Hells, there was never anything to forgive. One only needs to glance at you for a second to see how much you love the lad. I understand. Just...just... please shut up about it and stop your crying. I’ve no soft words for dealing with a woman’s tears. And it’s making me feel bloody useless.”

He scowls at himself for ending on such a blunt note. What a blundering idiot. Perhaps he ought to take a walk outside, give the wench some space and privacy.

He starts to rise, but to his surprise, she lifts her head and gives him a watery smile.

“Thank you, Ser Jaime,” she says shyly, gazing at him.  “You’re...very kind. I cannot tell you what that means to me.”

He stares back at her for a long moment, enraptured by her shining eyes, so full of sincere gratitude.

He can’t recall ever having someone look at him this way, with such tenderness and softness in their expression. He feels the heat rising up his neck and shrugs, grinning lopsidedly.

“No bother,” he says, intending to sound chipper, but his words come out rather hoarse and crackly. He manages another grin and waves his hand, as though hoping to wave away the intensity of the moment and the feelings stirring inside him.

“Now, you best try and get some rest, lass,” he says briskly.  “Go on then, lie down. I’ll wake you again if you have another nightmare.”

Brienne glances uncertainly at Pod, sleeping beside her beneath a blanket of fur.  For quite some time, the only sounds are his soft snores and the crackling of the fire.

Then she murmurs, eyes downcast, “I…I don’t want to wake Pod. He…he needs his rest. He needs to save his strength. He has another hard ride tomorrow.”

“So have you,” Jaime shrugs. “You can’t stay up all night for fear of waking the lad. He wouldn’t want that. As I said before, I’ll wake you if need be. Sleep.”

Brienne watches him, and opens and closes her mouth a few times, as though struggling to find words.

 _Spit it out, wench,_ he thinks. _I’d like to get some sleep myself. I can’t spend half the night waiting for you to find your clumsy words._

She sits under her covers by the fire, and forces herself to meet his eyes, though she looks as though she’d much rather retreat under the blankets and never emerge.

Finally she manages to stutter out, “I- I think-  last night…I think it…you...you _helped_ ,” she says, so low he can barely hear her, though he’s kneeling right beside her. “Could…could you, perhaps- I mean- if you don’t mind-“

She’s cringing in embarrassment every step of the way, and for a while he has to struggle to process what the hell she’s on about. Then it dawns on him.

_You ridiculous bloody wench. You want me to lie with you? After the stink you kicked up this morning!_

For a brief moment, Jaime is tempted to play dumb, to force her into completing her request, taking a little vengeance for her strong reaction and accusatory stare that morning.

_Go on then, wench. Tell me you what you want._

But then she begins to turn from him, her humiliation painfully evident, and he recalls the touching words he overheard her crying out in her sleep. He thinks of her caring for him so doggedly after the Companions took his hand, of her remarkably gentle hands tending to him, about her cajoling him into holding onto life when he’d been so tempted to slip away.

He thinks about her genuine belief in honor and chivalry, her fierce loyalty and and his sympathy beats out his ego.  

_Alright, wench, I’ll help you out._

“Are you asking me to...lie with you again?” he asks her, as kindly as he can, but it still makes her cringe with shame.

“Y-yes. If you- only if you-”

“Of course, my lady” he says immediately, and relief washes over her features. “Anything I can do to help. I’m no stranger to dark dreams.”  

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

He walks over to his bedroll and picks it up, bringing it back over to her. She looks highly uncertain, chewing on her lip and looking up at him with questioning eyes.

“Alright then, wench. Lie down,” he says softly, settling down beside her. “It’s over. Just remember that’s it’s all over. What’s past is past, but Pod is safe and alive and sleeping soundly right beside you. Now rest easy.”

She smiles and lays back down. He lies down down too, on his back. He stares up at the dark stone ceiling for a while and wonders whether he should do anything more. She probably wouldn’t want him to touch...well, being beside her is probably enough.

He doesn’t need to reach over and press himself against her back, or wrap his arm around her stomach, or rest his chin upon her shoulder.

But gods, does he want to. The urge to touch her is overwhelming and quite a bit disturbing.

_This is close enough, Lannister. If she has another nightmare, you’ll do what you have to, but this isn’t- it isn’t anything else, and you’re a bloody fool for wanting it to be._

“Jaime,” she says, barely above a whisper.

“Mmm?” he asks.

“Could you...I...I-” she stutters once again, and he almost laughs in frustrated amusement at her bumbling words.

Bloody incoherent wench can’t even get out a full sent- but then she’s taking his hand in hers and tugging it towards her and draping it across her side and his mind goes blank.

Stunned, but not displeased, he tightens his grip around her and whispers, “Goodnight, Brienne.”

“Goodnight,” she says quietly.

He falls asleep to the sounds of her peaceful breathing and the crackling of the dying fire, feeling warmer than he has in a long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I love reviews more than Cersei loves wine!
> 
> More soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein things get a little steamier and Jaime is a smug bastard.

********  
  


Jaime wakes up slowly, basking in the warmth of the body pressed against his. Blinking awake, he looks down to see a freckled, exposed shoulder inches from his lips. It’s so bare and enticing that, without really thinking, he reaches down to press a kiss upon it, nuzzling his stubbled chin against the soft skin.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the girl beside him that jerks him into alertness.

The events of the night before come back to him and he can’t help but smile as he recalls her shy attempts to ask him to hold her and the sureness with which she’d pulled his arm around her. .

 _So you’re awake, are you, wench?_ he thinks.

Her back is set against him so he cannot see her face, but the very obvious reaction to his kiss leaves no doubt that she is fully conscious. Jaime wonders how long she’d been up, just lying there in his embrace as the sunlight slowly trickled into the cave.

He’s certainly kept a tight hold on her throughout the night. There’s hardly any telling where his body ends and hers begins, the way he’s pushed up against her, the way he’s clutching her tightly to him, his hand on her taut belly.

He’s a little surprised she hasn’t moved away after the sleepy kiss he’d planted on her neck, shoving him off her and demanding that he get away and get up.

She hadn’t shoved him off though.

She’d simply...gasped. In fact, her breaths were coming a lot more quickly than any well rested wench’s really should.

_Interesting._

Curious, and careful to use movements that indicate semi-consciousness, he presses his face against her neck once more, scraping his beard gently against her skin and moving his hand slowly across her stomach.

She arches against him, her breaths increasing even more rapidly.

He is sure he can feel her heartbeat quickening against him. She’s very still in his arms, but he can feel her ribs beneath his hand jutting in and out in time with her short, fast breaths.

_She still hasn’t thrown me off her._

Unable to resist testing her a little further, he allows his hand to trail towards her waist, making sure it doesn’t seem too deliberate.

Her tunic has risen up a bit in the night and after a moment his fingertips glide over bare flesh. As soon as he touches the exposed skin of her muscular stomach, she gives a sharp jerk and hisses.

But she doesn’t move away.

Tracing a small circle on her belly with his thumb, Jaime wonders, briefly, if any man has ever laid his hands on this particular bit of flesh. If anyone has ever trailed kisses over those small breasts or slipped a hand down beneath her smallclothes to find the warm wetness within them.

 _Not bloody likely_ , is his immediate answer.

As his fingers glide gently against her skin, featherlight, the lass positively _shudders_ beneath them and Jaime knows immediately that he is he is first and only man to have ever held the Maid of Tarth so intimately.

 _A damn shame,_ he thinks, as he listens to her heavy breath and his own begins to quicken in arousal.

Absurd as it may be, he cannot stop his traitorous mind from wondering what it would be like to explore the parts of her body no man has ever touched, to make her gasp beneath him and beg him to kiss her here, or touch her there.

Unbidden, the wench is inside his head, nude and wanton, urging him to press himself into her harder and faster, groaning out his name as he brings her to her full.

_Stop it._

He’s becoming hard, rather painfully so. It’s been a long time since anything but his clumsy left hand has brought him off and the feel of her soft flesh is maddening.

He knows probably pushing it, but she is being _remarkably_ compliant thus far. He rakes his fingertips across her belly, just above the waistband of her breeches.

A downright _obscene_ little moan escapes her lips at the sensation and she writhes beneath his fingers.

The unexpectedly sensual sound is enough to send his cock, which had already been past half-mast, into a full erection. He fights the temptation to bite into the smooth skin of her neck to hold back a groan of his own.

As she arches beneath his touch, her backside presses up against his very, very, obviously hard cock.

They both freeze.

****_Fuck._  
** **

This time, her gasp is not one of pleasure, but of genuine shock, and probably- though it pains him to admit it- a bit of horror.

Instantly, she wrenches herself from his embrace and sits up. She tosses the covers off and is on her feet a second later. He hears her footsteps pound hard across the cave floor as though she’s barely managing not to break into a full run.

Embarrassed beyond belief, he, Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, champion of countless tournies, survivor of numerous bloody battles, can only lay there on the cave floor like an utter fool, feigning sleep and willing his blasted erection to go away.

He’s hard as Casterly bloody Rock, and he’d very much like to slip a hand inside his laces to bring himself off, but when the wench comes back he’d prefer to be found up and doing something productive. Not jerking on his rod like some sad young squire.

He tries to think of cold, stale things that chase off unwanted arousal, but he keeps hearing her moan inside his head and imagining her writhing and willing beneath him, crying his name into his neck and biting down on it in the throes of pleasure.

_Stop it, Lannister. You’ve well and truly lost your mind. Find it quickly and dig your heels firmly into the Land of Sanity. There is naught for you here but madness._

It is downright ridiculous to even entertain such thoughts about the wench.

She is hardly a creature to inspire anything remotely like desire. Hells, with her large, ungainly body and distinctly plain,unfeminine features, the poor maiden is the laughingstock of the bloody kingdom.

 _Brienne the Beauty,_ they call her, a cruel jape intended to wound. They laugh at her man’s clothing, the sword she carries, her hulking, armored form that’s seems more man than woman.

 _And then she knocks them all into the dust and knocks the smirks right off their sneering faces,_ he thinks with a swell of pride and and affection.

_Damn her._

He could walk out of this cave right now, head for the nearest town and find a few dozen lasses fairer and bustier and softer in about five minutes. Even with a missing hand, he could likely take his pick of willing lasses in any corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

And yet, no amount of strength of will can get these absurd, lustful, filthy images out of his head.

_You’ve gone off the deep end. Lost a hand, a father,a sister, a brother...and your mind as well, it seems._

Objectively speaking, there is little to be said for the wench, physically.

Except for the eyes.

_Damn those eyes._

He sees a flash of them inside his head- heavy-lidded, sleepy and content as she lays beneath him after they’ve both hit their climax, reaching up to cup his face and pull his lips down towards her swollen ones- and he lets out an involuntary shudder and groan.

_Stop it._

It’s mad. Completely mad. He imagines Tyrion, or his father, or Cersei seeing these thoughts and can barely fathom their reactions.

Brienne is a freak by anyone’s standards.

It had been one of the first descriptive traits to come to his mind when he’d first laid eyes on her. Dozens, hundreds had used it to describe her both to her face and behind her back.

And yet now, when he thinks of the Maid of Tarth, there are so many other words that come to mind that 'freak' isn’t even on the same bloody tourney field.

 _She’s brave and loyal and kind and noble and naive and idealistic and unbelievably frustrating and stubborn as a mule and gentle, so gentle, so very gentle, and shy and insecure and strong and generous and fearless and selfless and_...he can think of a hundred words to describe her other than freak, but he stops himself because it's sentimental and stupid and pointless.

The point is, the excuse he’s been clinging to,  that she’s an unattractive freak he could only ever feel platonic affection for, is wearing bloody thin.

As he’d held her warm body in his arms and brushed his lips and fingers against her skin, he’d been very, _blatantly_ attracted. The rock-hard cock that had terrified the poor wench into flight was proof of that.

 _And it still hasn’t gone away,_ he thinks, annoyed.

Perhaps if he gets up, starts work on some task, he’ll get her off his mind.

He walks over to their bag of supplies and starts to rifle through it, but he’s still thinking of her.

He’s not sure which side of it is more disconcerting; the knowledge that this fierce, idealistic warrior woman who he respects more than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms has worked her way into his heart in this unique and thoroughly uncomfortable way....or the fact that he just wants to fuck her senseless.

 _Get those thoughts out of your head_ , Lannister, he tells himself sharply.

They’ll lead him nowhere. Certainly nowhere good.

The wench may have agreed to let him hold her close to stave off the terrors of the night, may have even been a bit aroused by the unfamiliar feeling of foreign hands on her body, but it wasn’t and wouldn’t ever be anything more than that.

She is young, much younger than him, in body and spirit. She’s seen a lot since they set out from Riverrun, and it’s darkened her a bit, but he still sees so much faith and hope and innocence in her eyes that sometimes it’s painful to even look at her.

She is good a person as they come and he is a sullied knight with a blackened soul and a thousand regrets. The very idea of such a pair coming together is unfathomable.

Letting the kingslayer hold her in his arms for a night was one thing. Giving her maidenhead to a crippled, old man who’d committed unspeakable atrocities was quite another.

He’s a fool to want it, but he’d be even more foolish to pretend that if she was eager and willing, he wouldn’t take her in an instant.

Sighing, he gathers up some ingredients and begins to stoke the fire once again and prepare some breakfast.

********  
  


____

****

The wench returns in a few minutes and he looks up as she enters the cave, determined to pretend nothing out of the ordinary had occurred between them.

“Morning,” he says, as brightly as he can manage. “Some hot tea?”

“Er- yes, please,” she says quietly, her face flushing as she takes a hot mug from him.

He’s boiling up some more broth, tossing in bits of vegetable, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. ** **  
****

She sits upon a boulder on the other side of the fire with her drink.

He can feel her eyes on him the whole time, but the one time he ventures a glance up from his work, she snaps her head away from him and stares at a speck on the wall as though it has suddenly become the most fascinating piece of art in all of Westeros.

He almost laughs at how flustered the poor lass is.

When he returns to his work and he feels her blue eyes fall back on him immediately.

Unwittingly, his tongue comes out to flicker across his lips. It’s a habit left over from his relationship with Cersei- he used to do at feasts when he knew she was looking, teasing her and making her long for the moment when Fat Robert made off with some big-bosomed serving wench and they could slip away to be together in some dark corner.

He has to bite his lip to keep from grinning when he hears the wench let out a little gasp over the crackling over the fire.

 _Like that, do you?_ he thinks, pleasantly surprised at this sign that she may not be completely disgusted by the events of the morning.

 _Confused, perhaps, and a little frightened, but disgusted?_ It’s seeming less and less likely as her eyes continue to stare across the fire at him.

He waits another minute and when he’s sure that she’s still watching, he does it again, this time slowly and deliberately raking his tongue across his full lips in as salacious a manner as he can.

_**Bang.** _

The mug she’d been holding clatters to the cave floor, echoing loudly off the cave walls.

“ _Seven hells!_ ” she swears, jumping to her feet.

He looks up to see her dancing on her toes, gritting her teeth. There’s a large wet patch all over the front of her breeches where her hot tea had spilt before smashing to the ground.

He can’t help the bark of laughter that bursts from his lips at the sight of her bobbing there, scarlet with shame.

_You’re a bad man, Lannister. A wicked man._

“Shut up,” she snaps, glaring at him and pulling the hot, wet fabric away from her skin, hissing.

“Sorry,” he says, still laughing. He picks up a nearby rag and walks over to where she stands, still bouncing and trying to cool the steaming liquid by moving.

“Come here, wench.”

He takes her by the wrist and tugs her downward so she’s sitting back on the boulder. He starts to pat at her thighs, soaking up some of the hot water. He moves more slowly than is really necessary, locking eyes with her as he glides the hand holding the rag up her strong legs.

The look on her face is intense, the desire in her eyes plain. He’s baffled by its’ appearance but he enjoys the thrill it sends straight to his ego (and elsewhere). He doesn’t attempt to hide the lust in his own hungry green eyes.

As he hikes a little higher, daring to move towards the place between her legs where the flustered wench had also spilled a considerable amount of tea, her eyes widen.

Then she seems to snap out of her reverie and she snatches the cloth out of his hand.

“ _I can do that!_ ” she says sharply.

“Of course you can, of course you can. You are a most capable young woman, as you’ve proven time and time again,” he says with an obnoxious amount of courtesy in his tone. She glares at him, all gritted teeth and furious eyes, and he laughs again, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Bit clumsy this morning though, aren’t we?”

“Shut up,” she says, getting to her feet and shoving past him. In a stilted voice, she states, “I’m going to wake Pod for breakfast. Is this nearly ready?” She gestures at the broth with a quick nod of her head.

“Almost. Smells delicious, doesn’t it?” he says cheerfully as she stalks off.

He can’t fight the grin off his face as he finishes up breakfast, or prevent the occasional chuckle from escaping his lips.

The past few days have been heavy- full of fear for their lives and hard riding and serious talk. It’s been a long while since he’s felt anything resembling genuine amusement and it’s intoxicating.

“What are you _grinning_ about?” she asks savagely, glowering down at him when she returns a moment later with a sleepy Podrick Payne.

“Nothing,” he says, flashing her a winning smile.

She stares stonily back at him, before shaking her head in disgust.

It feels so much like old times that he grins even wider.

“Is this ready yet? We need to be leaving soon,” she demands, standing over the broth.

“All set, My Lady. Help yourself,” he says charmingly, with a slight bow of his head that seems to irritate her more than ever.

 _As he knew it would,_ he thinks smugly. 

She grabs a ladle and begins to spoon careless scoops of it into a bowl, sloshing bits of it over the side.

“Careful there,” he says cheerily. “Wouldn’t want another spill, now. Your track record with hot substances has been a little sub-par this morning, I must sa-”

“Shut up,” she says, turning her back on him and bringing the bowl of broth over to Pod.

_I’ve got you rattled, wench, he thinks, with no small amount of satisfaction._

He picks up a second bowl and adds some of the steaming broth to it. Brienne, assuming he’s pouring it for himself, stands by, impatiently waiting for her turn.

When he holds it out to her like a perfect gentleman, she raises her eyebrows in surprise. Annoyance and gratitude seem to be waging violent war with each other on her homely face, but in the end, gratitude wins out.

“Thank you, Ser,” she says stiffly, taking it from him and quickly walking back over to sit with Pod.

_Rattled indeed._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I love reviews more than Tywin loves power.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,  
> First of all, I just want to stress how grateful I am for all the reviews, kudos and support I've been getting on the various sites I've posted this on. You are all so sweet and warm my heart with your amazing feedback. 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry this chapter is a bit short and doesn't quite bring us to the moment we've all been waiting for....
> 
> But brace yourselves. Smut IS coming. 
> 
> ASAP.

Y _ou truly are a bastard. A complete and utter scoundrel_ , he thinks as he rides his chestnut colored mare down the overgrown game trail.

This time, however, it’s not with a self-deprecating, but an extremely self-satisfied tone.

He’s been messing with the poor lass _all day_ and getting far too much pleasure out of it. Part of it, he thinks, may be sheer happiness that he’s not the only one to feel this absurd attraction, but seeing her so flustered and knowing he’s responsible does have a special sort of thrill to it.  

He wonders if she’s felt something for him for a while, keeping it hidden beneath the surface, or if it was just awakened these past few days, forced into into her consciousness by this morning’s caresses.

He certainly hadn’t picked up on any signs of attraction on her part before this morning, but now he’s finding them everywhere.  


He catches her staring at him multiple times, always averting her eyes when he meets hers with an intentionally blazing expression and chuckling at her embarrassment. 

He sings heartily throughout the morning, ignoring her when she urges him to be quiet lest they draw unwanted attention.

  
“Relax, wench. We’re in the wilds, now. No one to hear us but the birds, and all they can do is envy my dulcet tones,” he says, grinning as she scowls and shakes her head.  


He even recruits Pod into joining him for a few songs. The boy is reluctant and skittish at first, shyly speaking the lyrics in a barely audible monotone, but soon grows more confident.

By the second song he’s belting out the crude lyrics along with Jaime, a happy expression on his face.  


The wench seems torn between contentment over Pod’s happiness and horror at some of the words her lad is singing. Jaime can feel her frowning at him as his verses becoming increasingly lewd and Pod looks increasingly delighted with himself. ** **  
****

She clearly thinks he’s a bad influence on her beloved squire.

_I could be a bad influence on you, too, m’lady._

When he begins a particularly vulgar song about a travelling whore called Kitty Connahan, Brienne stops biting her tongue in quiet disapproval and steps in.  


“ _Surely_ ,” she says, staring pointedly at him. “You can think of another song to delight us with.”  


He notes the sarcasm in her tone and simply bows his head, “As you wish, my lady.”  


He’s been waiting ages to spring this on her, to see how she takes it. He begins to hum a slow, quiet tune, much softer and gentler than his previous jaunty tavern songs.

She swivels toward him as she recognizes the song, her mouth slightly agape.  
It’s a terribly sentimental love ballad; An epic romance between two lovers from warring kingdoms, a harrowing tale of love lost and found again, of love that beats all odds.

It’s exactly the sort of song that makes young boys groan in disgust and young girls swoon and sigh in wistful longing.

Brienne may be tough as nails and far from your conventional maiden, but she is still a young girl and he knows that beneath her muscular torso and layers of armor, beats the heart of a true romantic.  
He may be laying it on thick, but it’s far too enjoyable to resist. ** **  
****

His voice really isn’t bad, when he isn't tunelessly belting out crude words like a sailor. He keeps it low and husky and catches her eye whenever he can, though she spends most of the song staring determinedly at the back of her horse’s head, clearly fighting to keep her reactions neutral but never quite succeeding.

She makes a noble attempt of it, but still, he watches her closely and catches her subtle reactions. ** **  
****

When he gets to the bit about the cruel dragon-rider snatching up the heroine on his great green beast and soaring off with her to a distant land, intending to marry her against her will, he can see Brienne's shoulders tense up, though she knows, as all maidens do, the way the story ends.

He sees the sag of her shoulders when the ballad’s lovers defeat the villain and dragon together. He catches the audible sigh of relief when the pair sails off across the narrow sea where they can spend eternity in each others’ arms.  


When he finishes the song, the three of them lapse into silence for a few minutes and he watches her as their horses plod on through the woods. He knows she can feel him looking but she keeps her eyes forward and her expression blank.  


“Well then,” he says cheerily. “What’d you think, my lady? Bit more appropriate?”  


She is silent for a long moment, chewing her lip. “I suppose,” she says stiffly. She hesitates for a moment before adding, “But I....I also suppose Pod is old enough to decide for himself what sort of vulgarity he listens to. Carry on with your bawdy tunes if it please you. Just not so loudly. We’re not in Lannister territory yet.”  


Jaime grins in satisfaction. She’s done her best to play it cool but he sees the flush in her cheeks.  


“What do you say, Pod? Shall we go for a cheerful sea shanty this time? Do you know the one about Wiley Captain Carrow and the Leviathan?”  


“Yes, Ser!” says Pod, looking relieved. “That other one was...was a bit...a bit...”  


“Dull?” Jaime says, smiling. “I agree entirely.”  


 _But there’s a fair chance the wench’s smallclothes are of a different opinion,_ he thinks with a grin.  
 ** **  
__________________________________________________________****

 ** ******  
It’s nearing dusk now. He and Pod had run out of songs hours ago, and though tempted, he’s refrained from the cruelty of singing her another romantic ballad.  


It has been a while since he’s done anything to tease her, actually, and his ego is thirsty for another boost.  


This is different to anything he’s experienced and he’s enjoying it thoroughly.  


With Cersei, things had always been straightforward. It was them, only them, since before they even knew what sexual attraction was. He’d never know another woman, nor wanted one before now, and Brienne's inability to conceal her feelings is wholly charming. ** **  
****

As he and Cersei had grown, there’d never been any shyness or doubt from his sister. When she wanted him, she demanded he take her and he’d do so without the slightest hesitation. She told him what to do and exactly how to do it. There’d never been need for either of them to be coy.

He’s thoroughly enjoying the novelty of this tentative flirtation between them.

There’s something deeply arousing about the bashful glances she occasionally ventures to give him through batted eyelashes. The sexual tension in the air as she battles her attraction is so strong there are moments he wants to halt the horses and head into the woods for a few minutes alone with his cock.

It’s cruel, really, to tease this poor, inept maiden who has known only scorn and revulsion from the men around her, but her blushing cheeks are so bloody endearing to him that he couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to.

Pod is already dozing in his saddle as the sky begins to darken.

Her brown and white mare is trotting ahead of his, but he urges his forward to come up alongside her.

“Brienne,” he says.

“What?” she asks, jumping slightly as he startles her out of whatever thoughts she’d been lost in.

 _Probably ones of me naked, you saucy strumpet_ , he thinks with a grin.

“We ought to think about finding a place to rest for the night. It’s getting late,” he says. He reaches over and places his hand on her forearm, stroking it gently through the fabric and wishing there were no layers between them. “Surely you must be getting tired.”

She stares down at his hand for a moment, before snatching her arm out of his grip. “I’m fine,” she says. After a pause, she adds, “But Pod is clearly exhausted. We ought to make camp and get some food into him so he can have a proper sleep.”

“Of course,” he says innocently. “There are some hills ahead. Might be we can find another unoccupied cave, or at least some rocks to put our backs to. It’s a clear night, at least, so even if we end up under the stars we’ll be dry.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go!  
> I'll aim to have the next one up tomorrow!  
> Sorry to be as big of a tease as Jaime but we're almost there!  
> <3 
> 
> Thanks again for the reviews! I love them more than Tommen loves kittens.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words of encouragement! 
> 
> I now present your reward for sticking with me and being so supportive! 
> 
> Bom chicka wa wa. Here there be smut. 
> 
> (Alsoit'smyfirsteversmutposting. Imalittleselfconscious. ihopeitsnotawfulandimsorryifitis)

The best shelter they manage to find before dark is an outcropping of rocks on a small hill. Slabs of grey stone surround them on three sides, and Jaime and Brienne immediately get to work gathering up some fallen trees and other debris in the area to increase their protection on the open side, while Pod starts a fire.  


Jaime watches the wench push over a considerably large dead tree, without very much effort at all. He hears the crunching and snapping of its roots being torn from the stony soil, watches it smash to the ground and he smiles. She hasn’t even broken a sweat.  


 _That’s one hell of a woman._  
  
He walks over to help her carry it back to their camp, as he’s done with the previous four trunks they’ve dragged back to Pod’s fire. The first time, she’d given him a hesitant look, a look that plainly said “ _I’ll probably be must faster doing this by myself and maybe you should just start dinner or someth_ -” but she quickly masked it, smiled and accepted his meager, one-handed help. ** **  
****

With Pod’s fire and Brienne’s trees and the rocks around them, they almost have four walls to shelter in. Young Payne is yawning as he pulls out bits of dried meat from their saddle bags, so Brienne takes over the task from him as soon as she’s satisfied with their defenses.

They eat dinner in companionable silence, all quite tired from the long day’s ride, though none more so than Pod.  

 _Good_ , Jaime thinks. _Head off into a deep sleep, lad. I intend to do things to your lady tonight that you have no business knowing about._

Then he laughs, aware that his confidence has gone well past the point of reason. ** **  
****

_You’re not there yet. Good luck seducing a maid who refuses to even make eye contact with you._

Brienne looks up in puzzlement at his bark of laughter,  but Pod’s eyes are closing in his head as he stares into the fire and he doesn’t even glance in Jaime’s direction..  


“We’ll be at the Lannister camp by midday tomorrow, Pod,” he calls across the fire. “You ought to get some sleep. I’ve no doubt there’ll be a number of young squires eager to spar with some new blood. The wench tells me you’ve got some skill with a blade, and I hear you saved my brother’s life on the Blackwater. There’s a couple of much too cocksure lads among them who I wouldn’t mind seeing knocked down a peg or two.”  


Pod’s sleepy eyes come to life with pride and excitement at Jaime’s words and Brienne can’t stop a huge smile from coming to her face at his delight. The teeth may be horsey and prominent, but his stomach gives a little clench at the sight of it anyway.  


“Yes Ser,” Pod says. “That would be- yes. Yes, I’ll go lie down now, I think.” Then he casts a look at Brienne, “I mean- if you don’t need me to help clea-”  


“No, Pod,” Brienne says kindly. “You go sleep. There’s not much to do.”  
“Thank you S- my lady,” he says, and scampers off to his bedroll, practically tripping over his feet in his eagerness.  


For once, Brienne readily allows Jaime to catch her eye and they share a smile at Pod’s excitement. Together, they rinse off the dinner dishes and pack away some supplies. Then Brienne busies herself with raising their food up towards the branch of tall tree to keep the animals away, and Jaime boils some water for tea.  


_You’re not going to bed yet, wench._   


A part of him wishes for some mulled wine, but he chases the thought away right away. He has no intention of taking advantage of her with drink. 

_Besides, you’re more than capable of getting this done without help. The lass wants it even if she doesn’t care to admit it._

  
She finishes storing their food and comes over to where he’s filling two mugs with steaming water.  


“What are you doing?” she asks.  


“Making tea,” he says simply, stirring away with maddening innocence.  


“We ought to follow Pod’s example and-”  


“Sit down and have some tea with me, wench,” he says. Her mouth opens in indignation at his command, but he cuts in before she can express her outrage. “Come on now. It’s our last night on this little adventure. You’re not going to leave up in my loneliness are you?”  


She gives a derisive laugh at that.  


“Just take the tea. I didn’t bring it to a full boil this time. I know you haven’t had the best luck with hot-”  
She sits down beside him with a huff and snatches the mug out of his hand, glaring at him as he laughs.  


“Quiet down,” she scolds. “Pod’s trying to sleep.”  


Jaime listens for a moment. Then he scoffs, “That lad? He’s already out like a light. Snores like a bear for someone so scrawny. I’ll laugh as loud as a please. He can sleep through anything.”  
 _Let’s hope._

Brienne looks at him in mild disgust before taking a sip of her tea.  


Now that he has her here, Jaime really hasn’t the vaguest idea how to continue, so he too sips at his tea. They drink in silence for a while, Jaime growing increasingly impatient with himself.  


E _ase up there, Lannister. Pure lady killer, you are. Tone it down before the wench comes from the sheer intensity of your awkward silence._  


After a while, though he can’t think of anything charming and winning to say, he cannot bear the silence so he ventures forth a rather pathetic, “The lad seemed pleased at the prospect of some sparring tomorrow.”  


She looks at him for a moment before smiling. “Yes, he did, didn’t he?” She nods her head and he notices how close they're sitting. Their shoulders are almost touching. “He’s been stuck on the road with me for so long- and then after all that happened with...with the Brotherhood...it’ll be good for him to spend some time with boys his own age.”  


“Yes,” Jaime says. “Perhaps I’ll challenge the lad to a round myself. He’d probably make a fairer opponent than the executioner cousin of his I’ve been practicing with,” he adds with a note of bitterness.  


The wench looks so sympathetic at his words that he almost turns defensive, but then she gives him a sweet smile and says, “I’m sure that would make his day. Truly. What lad hasn’t grown up dreaming of the chance to duel with the famed Jaime Lannister?”  


_By the gods. Are you a bloody 12-year-old boy? Stop blushing._

“Yeah, well,” he says stiffly. “I’d like to see what he’s made of. After all, I will be sending him off to protect you on this mad quest. I need to know my wench has some good steel at her back.”  


She looks hard him when he speaks the words 'my wench' and as he gazes at her he can’t help staring at the hideous scarring Biter left on her cheek. A wave of anger courses through him.

  
“I should not have sent you after her,” he says, and for once it’s him who can’t look at her. After a moment of staring at the rocks, seething and guilty, he forces himself to look up again and face the consequences of what his ridiculous quest has done to her. He looks at the rope-burn on her neck and the bite-marks on her cheek, and slowly reaches up his hand, pressing the back of his index finger against it. Her breath catches and she’s so frozen it’s like she’s a carved statue.  


“It’s...futile, Brienne. There’s not a trace of her, anywhere, and after all that’s happened to you...you...you don’t have to go out there again. If you seek honor, there are other ways-”  


His words jolt her out of her wide-eyed frozenness and she pulls back, outraged, “Jaime, no. I swore an _oath_. I said I’d find Sansa Stark, and I will. I will not rest until-”  


“The woman you swore to is _gone_ , Brienne,” he says, and suddenly he’s overcome with a terrible fear of her heading out into the warzone on this insane search. “You don’t hav-”  


“Yes I do,” she says, firmly, fire blazing in her eyes. “I didn’t swear an oath to that creature back there. I swore it to Catelyn Stark. A good lady. A kind lady, overcome with grief for the sons she left at home to help her eldest boy fight his war. Robb was just a lad too, and she loved him and stood by him, but her heart was torn apart with longing for her other boys in the north and her daughters in the south.”  


The wench’s voice is cracking and there are tears in her eyes.  


 _No_ , he thinks, his chest constricting. _This isn’t the direction I wanted this to go. This isn’t-_ ** **  
****

But the wench continues. “She had an incredible strength about her Jaime, even after the loss of her husband, but it began to flicker out when Greyjoy killed her youngest boys. _All_ she wanted was to know her remaining children were safe. Sansa is gentle and loving and she could be anywhere, but I will find her and bring her to safety if it’s the last thing I do.”

Her jaw is set and stubborn and the tears in her eyes are gone, replaced with fierce resolve. He shakes his head at her, knowing arguing about it is even more futile than her hopes of finding one redheaded maiden in a war-torn kingdom.

“I know. I know. I should have known it was useless to even suggest.” He stares at her and all his desire for her comes rushing back as he thinks about how stupidly loyal and brave she is, how steadfast her conviction is, how unbreakable her resolve is. ** **  
****

Fiercely, he puts his hand on hers, gripping it tightly where it rests on the rocky ground beneath them, and leans his head closer to hers, desperately needing to close the gap between their mouths but also needing to tell her how fucking stupid and pigheaded and insane she is.

His voice is gruff and low, full of annoyance and affection as he leans ever closer and says, “ _You_ are the most impossibly bloody stubborn wen-”

He stops when she wrenches her hand out of his grip and pulls her head back. _He’d been so bloody close._

“Jaime...” she says shakily, eyes wary. ** **  
****

The tension in the air is heavy.

She looks, for an instant, as though she wants to leap from her feet and flee the cave for her life and he curses himself for pushing too far.

Built like a bull and fearless on the battlefield the Maid of Tarth may be, but beneath the armor and the bulk, there’s innocence and fragility and she’s still very much a young girl. He thinks maybe he should get up now, move off before he crosses yet another line and ruins everything.

Teasing her had been all sorts of fun, but if she’s not ready, or she truly doesn’t want him, it would be better not to destroy the only meaningful relationship in his miserable bloody life.

They’re not far from safe lands now. If the day stays as clear tomorrow as this night is, they should regroup with Jaime’s troops by midday tomorrow. After that, it won’t be long before they’ll part ways once again and she’ll be out of his life, perhaps forever.

Why ruin what they have by overstepping boundaries or reading signs that might not even be there, when they could sit in companionable silence around the fire, share a tale or two before turning in for the night?  

But then, to his surprise, she brings her hand back down beside his. She doesn’t put her whole hand on his, but her long pinky is just about grazing his.

He’d think it accidental, but for the way she’s staring down at the place where their fingers touch, fear and longing both painted on her features.

 _She wants it_ , he thinks with a rush of relief. _She might be half terrified of it, but she wants it._

He leans his head closer to hers and rests his golden hand on her thigh. He moves slowly and deliberately, giving her every opportunity to shove him away, pausing a good few inches from her mouth but leaving no doubts about his intentions to close the distance between their lips.  

Her mouth falls slightly ajar and her hungry eyes sparkle in the firelight.

“Jaime...” she starts again, and her hand is clenching and unclenching somewhere near her chest. There’s both hesitation and desire in her expression and he hopes to the gods that the sensible wench chooses to go against her nature for once. If she turns him away, if she refuses him, he knows the blow will sting much more than he’d like.

“Tell me, wench,” he says huskily, green eyes intensely boring into hers. “Tell me you don’t want it,” he says, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes.

She shudders slightly, and starts to turn away.

He catches her chin as she turns from him, forcing her to look back into his eyes so he can read her expression, stroking a finger along the line of her strong jaw.

She trembles beneath his touch and her eyes are swimming with confused emotion.

There’s hesitation there but an undeniable flicker of excitement and he’s going to push her because he _wants_ this and he knows she does too.

“Tell me you don’t want it. Say the words, wench, if they’re true.” His voice is low and throaty as he speaks right into her ear, his thumb moving tracing the line of her bottom lip.

“I...I...” she stutters, not resisting as he tilts her face back to face his.

“Say you don’t want it, Brienne,” he demands again, moving his lips away from her ear and back towards her wide mouth, still maintaining distance, but closer than he’s yet been.  

“I...” she begins again, and he feels her shaky breath against his own mouth. He’s close now, unbearably close and she still hasn’t brought herself to send him packing.

Deciding the wench has had more than ample opportunity to put a stop to things, he brings his mouth down upon hers, seamlessly moving his hand to the back of her head, tangling it in the straggly blonde hair and bringing them fully together.

His kiss is hard, and as soon as their lips meet, he realizes how badly he’s needed it.    ** **  
****

He wants to show some semblance of restraint until she gives him a reaction, but her lips are slightly chapped from the wind and without much thought his tongue flicks out against her bottom lip, running gently across it, silently asking her to open up for him.

The wench’s mouth does fall open, but he suspects it may be more out of surprise than any desire for his tongue to start exploring the inside of her mouth.

Her hands still have not come up, either to push him away in outrage or to do any of the pleasurble things hands can do while mouths are occupied.

_Come on, wench. React. Kiss me, or slap me, or knock my teeth in._

_Do something._

He lays a few more soft, urgent kisses upon her lips, willing her to tell him what it is she’s feeling, what it is she wants.

After three, then four, gentle applications of pressure, chaste kisses that are clearly yearning for more, he starts to pull away, ready to face her reaction.

She still hasn’t done _anything_ to indicate mutual desire other than not punching him, and he’s momentarily afraid he has well and truly made a mess of what may be the best friendship an unworthy wretch like him could ever hope to have.

He loosens the hold on her tangled hair, running his hand across the back of her head, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks as he imagines the look of shock and betrayal he’ll see on her face when he dares to look her in the eye.

But then her large hand comes up and seizes the front of his tunic, balling into a fist around the crimson fabric, pulling him so close that only her fist separates their chests. They’re so close he can feel one of her breasts brushing up against him, and given the flatness of her muscular chest, that’s saying something.  

He dares himself to look into her eyes and in them he sees desire so blatant it floors him a little.

He has little time for surprise though, because a moment later her lips are crashing against his, eager and soft. Her left hand still tightly clutches at his tunic, but her right comes up to the side of his face, and she strokes his blonde stubble, a quiet moan escaping her lips as she pushes against his.

The sensuality of such a sound from the unlikeliest of wenches ignites a fire inside him. His hand flies to her waist and he holds her there, keeping her steady as he intensifies the kiss.

This time, when her mouth falls open, she gasps out his name and he knows it’s not mere surprise driving it. His tongue darts forward, gliding hungrily between her lips, which are now warm and wet. He runs it over her prominent teeth and then past them, and soon her tongue is flicking past her lips and tentatively brushing against his.

 _Gods, wench_ , he thinks, letting out a groan as she sucks softly at his bottom lip. _You certainly came around quickly._

The whole thing is a bit clumsy and they take some time to find their rhythm, but it’s utterly wonderful, in its way.

Sometimes they don’t tilt their heads at the right angle, or they’ll pull away to catch their breath and bump noses on the way back to each other’s ravenous mouths, but in spite of it all, it is real and right and if it wasn’t for the growing heat in his breeches, he’d be content to do this and only this for the rest of the night.

To his surprise, as he’s sliding his tongue along her teeth, wondering whether it’s time to reach for a breast, if she’d deem it too indecent for him to feel her teats through her raggedy tunic, she releases her hold on the front of his shirt and slides it down his hard stomach and then around to his back, slipping under the fabric and pulling him closer to her.

And when the wench stops suckling at him and bites down softly on his lower lip, his cock, which had already begun to stir, becomes a good deal harder. Gasping, he pulls back, badly in need of catching his breath.

He sees her brow furrow, her cheeks flush as she gazes at him in confusion. “I’m...I’m sorry,” she mutters, removing the hand that had been meandering up the back of his tunic. “Should I not have-?”

“Trust me, wench,” he smiles, catching her hand in his. “You should have.”

Taking a quick breath, he leans forward and his lips are on her bare neck, kissing the soft, freckled flesh.

A moment later, her hands are back on his body, nails of one hand scraping at the back of his neck while the other clutches somewhere near his lower back, and he finds himself nipping, then biting near her throat, as pleasurable gasps and throaty groans of his name burst from her lips.

He glides his hand from her hip up to one of her breasts, which fits pleasantly in the palm of his hand. Squeezing slowly, he circles his thumb languidly around her teat for a spell before giving it rather hard squeeze too. From the way she squirms and sighs, she’s quite alright with the amount of pressure and he pulls at it harder, enjoying the way she quivers against him.

He sucks hard on her collarbone, knowing there’ll be marks tomorrow and delighting in the knowledge.

After a while, he pulls back, wanting to return some attention to those large lips of hers, or maybe to nip at her ear. He pauses to give her a sly grin before carrying on and he sees her eyes, filled with lust he’d never expected to see there, staring down at his neck. Her tongue flickers across her lips and he quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Want to return the favor, do you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

She bites her lip shyly. “Can I...should I-?”

“Have at it, you sultry minx,” he says, arching his neck and inviting her to have a taste. He wonders if the comment will rile her and almost hopes it will, but she just shakes her head and rolls her eyes, and then she’s suckling at the place where his neck meets his shoulder and he can’t think about much at all.

After a spell, they’ve shifted positions so the Maid of Tarth is lying on her back, and he’s above her, propped up on an elbow so he’s not quite lying on top of her.

On the way down, he’d shoved her onto one of their long-forgotten mugs of tea and she’d hissed as the pool of hot water had spread across the rock and hit her back. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from laughing.

“It’s just not your day when it comes to tea is it, you clumsy-”

Whack! She slapped him on the arm, indignant but laughing in spite of herself, “That was _your_ fault, you oaf!”

He’d shut her up with a kiss and now he’s hard as a rock, trying to maintain a little distance between their bodies, to avoid spilling into his trousers like some squire, but he can’t keep his mouth off her.

His tongue continues to acquaint itself with her mouth, and her heavy breathing and soft mewls are making it exceedingly difficult to keep his head straight. Her hands roam over his torso freely, above his shirt and under it, like she can’t get enough of the feel of his hard abs and strong arms.

Then, for the first time since they’ve begun, his hand finds its way down past her waist and to the mound between her legs that he’s desperate to get inside. He cups it hard for a moment and then drags his hand up the length of it until he finds the laces of her breeches he tugs impatiently at them.

When she feels his touch on her sex, she gasps and stiffens, pulling her mouth away from his neck and staring up at him, open-mouthed.

Her eyes are wide, but other than that he cannot quite read her expression.

He hadn’t given much thought his action at the moment, but realizes how significant the touch must have been to the wench. ** **  
****

It’s a little hard for him to comprehend, for he’s only ever had Cersei, who would open herself to him quickly and command that he get going, the threat of being caught always nagging at her, making her impatient and demanding.

_Patience, Lannister. Patience and sensitivity. They may not be traits you even possess, but you’d better at least do a decent job of faking it, for the maid’s sake._

He sits up, a gentle hand resting on her thigh.

“Sit up, Brienne,” he says, calmly.

“W-what?” she begins, but he shakes his head, takes her by the wrist and pulls her up so she’s sitting too. His hand, without thinking, goes back to her thigh. They’d discarded the golden one minutes ago, when the cold metal had brushed against her exposed waist where her tunic had come untucked and made her jump about a foot in surprise.

“Better get rid of this useless thing,” he had muttered, and she’d helped him remove it between desperate kisses.

She looks down at his hand, once again unsure.

He stares her straight in the eye and says, “You must _talk_ to me, wench,” he says, quiet and serious, green eyes full of intensity. “Tell me what it is you want. I’ll not have it said I did anything you did not ask me to. Whatever happens this night has to be your choice.”

Her eyes move up and down between the hand that rests on her leg and his searching green eyes. She bites her lip.

 _Please_ , he thinks as his cock twitches painfully against his tight breeches. _Decide now, so I can either fuck you blind or throw myself into the stream outside to frighten off this throbbing cock. Or perhaps drown myself._

“Come now, girl,” he says gently, doing his best to give a reassuring smile. “The gods know you’re no wordsmith, but you’ll have to let me know what it is you want.”

Her brow knits in concentration and she continues to chew on her lip.

The frustration is bloody _killing_ him, and he wants nothing more than to throw her down and shove himself inside her, to run his tongue along her bare breasts and show her that there are vastly more interesting things to do beneath the sheets than kiss mouths and necks.

But he knows how new this is for her and he’s going to give her the chance to be _sure_ , even if his cock loathes him for it.

“You...you know that we’ll be in the Lannister camp soon,” he says slowly, determined that she understands the situation before they go further.  “As I’ve said, you and the lad will be safe there. You’ll stay a night of course, or longer if you choose. We’ll get some decent food into you and the boy, give you somewhere safe and relatively comfortable to rest your heads.

“But eventually duty and honor will call us once again in separate directions - and we’ll answer the call. Because we must,” he reaches up his hand to her chin and brushes his thumb across it. “If you want a moment to - to think about whether this is right for you, whether- one or two nights is enough- you are more than welcome to. I’ll take no offense, whatever you choose, my lady.”

He hates himself for the heat that rises to his cheeks, for how clunky and clumsy his words sound in his ears. He wills his stiff cock to relax, knowing this pause may give the maiden the chance she needs to come to her senses and put an end to this lunacy and he’ll get no satisfaction from anyone but himself.

He’s staring hard into her eyes, trying his best not to put any pressure on her to choose this- to choose him. He’s so focused on her face, that he jumps a bit when he feels movement _down there._

Softly, she grasps the laces of his breeches and gives a little tug, loosening them. “I do want it. I _want_ this, Jaime. I want all of it,” she says, her voice surprisingly steady, her jaw set and confident.

The grin he breaks into at her earnest words is likely embarrassingly goofy, but he can’t bring himself to give a damn. He lowers himself down and begins to kiss her savagely, struggling with the drawstring of her breeches as she deftly unlaces his.

“Might need...a hand...here, wench. Pun not intended,” he adds dryly as he impatiently pulls at her laces. She lets out a short laugh, then looks guilty and shoots him a sheepish grin before attending to her own trousers.

He doesn’t give her long to loosen the string before he’s shooing her hand out of the way and reaching for her cunt with his clumsy left hand, sliding beneath her smallclothes without much ceremony. She shudders and groans as he trails his fingers down her thicket of sandy-colored hair and slips past it, pressing a thumb against her nub before slipping two fingers beneath her folds.

He lets out a sharp intake of breath when he finds her wet and warm around his fingertips.

“By the gods,” he mutters into her ear, voice full of mischief. “You filthy wench! You’re positively _drenched_.”

She reaches up and swats him hard on the upper arm, but the look on her face is both bashful and defiant. He pushes his fingers further inside her, resting his head against her muscular belly and delighting in the way her gasps increase as she stretches to accommodate him, moaning his name just like he’s been imagining she would all bloody day.

He’s painfully hard as his fingers caress her tight folds and she bucks up against them eagerly. He pumps against her with his unskilled hand for a few moments, but her own hands tugging hard at his hair and her desperate moans of his name are too much.

He needs to start this now or he’ll be spent before his cock gets anywhere near her.

She makes a little sound of protest when he pulls his fingers out of her dripping cunt and it makes him laugh.

“Trust me, wench, I’ll replace them with something better in a moment. First though, let’s see what you’ve got under that tunic,” he says, grinning at her and grabbing the bottom of the wool. To his dismay, her eyes go wide again and her hands go up to clutch at the fabric near her breasts, her  previously confident expression faltering.

 _I thought you said you wanted thi_ \- he starts to think with a wave of exasperation, but then he looks more carefully at her embarrassed features and thinks he understands her hesitation. She’d been quite content to let him explore beneath her breeches, but the idea of having her large torso fully exposed, to be bare and vulnerable before him, must be frightening for the poor wench.

With the slew of coldhearted comments she’s listened to all her life, it isn’t a great wonder she's self-conscious. How can he convey that he _doesn’t care_? He doesn’t care if they’re not the largest, or her waist’s not the slimmest or she’s got as much muscle on her body as he does. He wants to feel her and see her and kiss her and taste her anyway and he has no doubt that he’ll enjoy pressing his lips to every freckle he can find.

He’s just not going to _let_ her be shy. It’s as simple as that.

“Come on, wench. I want to taste those teats on their own, without this smelly old shirt in the way,” he says, and begins an onslaught of eager kisses at the dip of her tunic’s collar.

It’s cut rather high and she’s not got much in the way of cleavage, so he can barely reach the tops of her breasts, but he kisses and licks and nips at what flesh he can find, taking breaks in between to say,

“Really now, lass, you’re being _awfully_ cruel, hiding them from me. Downright evil, actually,” she gives little laugh of amused disbelief at that, and he feels her chest rising up and down beneath his mouth.

“One might call you a filthy tease, you know.” he says and pulls the fabric down as far as it can go, and licks at the top of one of a small breast, squeezing the nipple of the other with his left hand.  She’s chuckling softly and shaking her head up at him, writhing a little as he kneads her beneath his palm.

“Come now,” he purrs. “Let me at them. Be kind.”

She pushes at his head weakly, and says, “Look, can’t we just- _Oh_ ”

He bites hard at her nipple through the fabric of her shirt, for he’s learned the pressure of his teeth can make her squirm in unexpected ways, and she can’t bring herself to continue her protest. He bites again, and sure enough a moment later, she’s groaning and digging her nails into his back and grinding her hips up into him as he nips at her tits.

_I’ve almost got her. Just one more push._

He adopts a high falsetto, which sounds not even a bit like her and says “‘ _Oh yes, Jaime. I want it. I want it all. All of it_!”

He peeks up at her and is pleased to see that she looks both flabbergasted and horrified. Grinning evilly, he continues,

“Oh, one addendum, though. _Don’t look at my breasts_! You’re not allowed access to _those_ , because I’m a cruel, selfish wench who likes to hoard her goods and torment poor old crippled men by refus-”

There’s a sharp whack on his ear that makes his head ring, but Brienne is laughing and saying “Alright, alright, just shut up with that stupid voice, you beast.”

She shoves him off her and gets on her knees so she can pull her shirt over her head. He recovers from her sharp blow and grins. There might not be much there, but it’s enough for him.

He doesn’t give her time to feel embarrassment or exposure before he’s kneeling too and he’s on them like a jackal, lapping rather boorishly at her tender flesh. By the way she presses into his mouth though, she doesn’t seem to mind.

After a few moments of enjoying them, he pulls back, raises an eyebrow and says, “Well?”

“Well, what?” Brienne asks, frowning a little suspiciously.

“You’ve shown me yours, though I certainly had to twist your arm about it. Don’t you want to see mine too? It’s rather nice, if I do say so myself.”

She rolls her eyes again, but then smiles shyly, and grazes a hand over his chest through his shirt. “Yes. I’d like that.”

He reaches a hand towards the hem of his shirt and starts to tug up, saying “This’ll go faster if you help, wench.”

She reaches over eagerly and tugs up hard. She’s so enthusiastic she turns reckless, and the shirt gets stuck around his neck, forcing a choking noise out of him. She laughs and mumbles an apology before righting it and sliding it over his head more carefully.

Once she’s tossed it aside, she gazes at him, open-mouthed for a moment. Then she reaches forward and runs her surprisingly delicate hands over his chest, rubbing her thumbs across his nipples and pressing tentative kisses to them, her tongue darting out to taste them.

She explores his chest while he explores hers, but he can only enjoy it for a few moments before his aching cock is screaming at him to stick it somewhere warm and tight before something embarrassing happens .

He pulls away from her, and she juts her lip out into a bit of a pout.

“Lie down,” he demands. She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not one of your underling soldiers you can just order around, Lannister,” she says, but her tone is playful and when he pushes her shoulders back to make her obey, she lets him.

“I said ‘ _lie down_ ,’  you contrary wench,”he repeats, nipping her ear and getting on top of her, somewhat clumsily, supporting himself on the elbow of his bad arm.

He tugs her breeches down past her knees in a swift motion. He’s ready to go- he’s been ready for longer than he’s even realized. But this is it. The point of no return.

He must catch her eye, to get the nod of approval he needs before continuing. He stops moving and looks up at her until she finds his gaze.

“Are you certain, my lady?”

She grabs fiercely for his shoulders and pulls him hard against her and he takes it as a go ahead.

He positions himself at her entrance, pausing for a brief moment to consider what he might have said, the day Catelyn Stark cut his chains at Riverrun, if some great Seer had told him he’d be here one day with this sword-wielding girl from Tarth .  

If someone had told him he’d one day be lying in a patch of woods in the middle of nowhere, taking the maidenhead of the surly, giant of a wench who’d been appointed with the task of escorting him to King’s Landing, what would he have said?

Not worth pondering.

With all the careful restraint he can muster, he slips inside her. She gasps and goes stiff, and a small flicker of pain crosses her features.

“‘Alrigh’?” he chokes out, full of concern yet struggling to even form human words as his prick is overcome with  thewet, tight sensation of her warmth around him.

She nods, and reaches up to his face, rubbing the spot beneath his ear tenderly for a moment before pulling him in for a light kiss.

“I’m fine, Jaime,” she smiles. “I’m fine.”

Relieved, he slowly begins to move against her, willing himself with all he’s got to go slowly and delicately.

It takes considerable effort not to thrust at her like some greenboy rutting unskillfully against his first whore, but after a minute he’s got a gentle pace worked out and her hands are tangling his hair, tugging hard at his golden locks every time he softly pushes into her, making him groan.

He wishes more than ever he had two good hands- one to hold himself up and the other to trail fingertips lovingly against her bare breasts and down her stomach. Instead, he does his best to keep a pleasing rhythm, sweat beginning to bead at his forehead.

When the thrusts begin to quicken, he realizes it’s not him, but _her_ who’s behind the change in pace and he can’t keep a dopey smile from coming to his face at her enthusiasm. She’s pressing up against him with real urgency, arching like a bloody cat in heat and clawing at his back, digging her nails in and almost _purring_.

It’s too much.

He’s had naught but his own useless left hand for so long and he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to last.

She’s so bloody tight. And _strong_. Cersei had always had a tendency to be...forceful when they lay together, but there’s true strength in the hands of the wench now pulls him down into her with such wanton need.

 _Hands that could very easily cause me bodily-harm if I fail to satisfy_ , he thinks and laughs at the absurdity of how much that thought turns him on.

Brienne’s moans start to increase in volume and frequency and he hopes she’s close to reaching her fill because he’s quickly approaching the brink.

The sight of the shy maiden he’d once known, who was always ungainly and unsure any time she didn’t have a blade in her hand, now writhing beneath him with gusto is far too arousing.

He wants it to last, but he’s beginning to doubt he will.

He’s bloody _tired._

It’s painful to admit, even to himself, but he’s not as young as he used to be, and holding himself up with one useless hand and meeting the wench’s enthusiastic hips requires considerable effort.

Her brow is just starting to glisten with a light layer of sweat, but there are droplets pouring down his forehead and into his eyes, and he has only a bloody useless stump to wipe at them with.

Her breasts, small as they are, are heaving in her pleasure and he longs to touch them.

He looks down at her. Convention would seem to dictate that whilst taking a Lady’s maidenhead, the man ought to lie on top, ought to show her how it’s done. He ought to take the lead and guide her through the motions.

But conventional is the last word he’d ever use to describe Brienne of Tarth.

A grin crosses his features as a solution for how to switch positions while retaining some dignity comes to him.

“You know, wench,” he says, slyly into her ear. “I’m rather surprised you would allow me to stay on top of you so long. Didn’t think you had it in you to be so _submissive_.”

He raises his eyebrow devilishly at her. She blinks up at him in puzzlement for a second before the meaning of his challenge dawns on her. A brief look of concern passes over her face and he thinks that she’s probably figured out that his taunt is really a sad cry for help from a struggling fool.

But then a wicked grin crosses her features and she nods.

“You’re right, kingslayer,” she says, reaching for his strong shoulders. “Last time we tussled, I got the better of you. Can’t have you getting cocky and forgetting that.”

“I think I must remind you, wench, that I was shack-”

“Hush,” she says, placing a long finger against his lips.

Then, she takes a better hold of his shoulders and rolls them over without much effort, taking a brief moment to adjust her position before taking his length in her hand and sliding him back inside her. They’d been separated for only a moment, but he’s relieved to be back inside her warmth.

She hesitates for a only an instant before she starts to roll her hips down toward him, rocking against him slowly, testing the feel of different movements. After a few minutes, she’s practically riding like she’s done it all her life and his head is bloody spinning.

He’d been thoroughly enjoying himself before, but the strain of holding himself one-handed had added a slight degree of discomfort to it.

Now, on his back, he can roam his hand wherever he likes, and there is only pleasure. Too much of it, if truth be told. There’s no bloody way he can last much longer but he wants too, gods, does he want to.

When miles and miles separate them and the cold northern winds and heavy snows make their way across the land, he wants her to look back on this night and be warmed by it. Warmed by the memory of Jaime Lannister taking her title of Maid of Tarth and shattering her world with glorious climaxes instead.

He does _not_ want her remembering how he spilt his load like some young boy before she had her pleasure, making her wish she’d held out and given it up to someone young and strong and whole instead of to a useless old cripple like him.

Lasting might be easier if she’d stop that _moaning_. It’s downright obscene- wanton, desperate, ecstatic. It’s going to send him over the edge.

He runs his hand over her right breast, teasing the nipple and feeling it harden beneath his thumb, watches her arch her neck in pleasure, exposing her neck and continuing to ride him hard.

The confidence he sees when he looks up at her is surprising. He stares up at the once shy maiden who is grinding her hips into his with reckless abandon, and he’s overcome with affection and desire.

He intends to reach up, to grab her with both hands and bring her crashing down against him so he can taste her lips again, but as he does he catches sight of his useless stump and stops, glaring furiously at it.

Her eyes had been closed, but when she feels Jaime slow down, she opens them too look at him in puzzlement. He tries to hide it, but he’s not quick enough to mask the look of disgust and loathing he’s shooting at the empty space where his hand used to be.

Those stunning blue eyes glance at him in confusion for a moment, then soften into pools of concern as she realizes what must be on his mind.

He scowls darkly, prepared to snap at her that he doesn’t want her damn pity.  

But to his surprise, she gently takes his pathetic stump in both of her hands and presses a gentle kiss onto it, followed by another, firmer but just as gentle. Her lips are soft against the scarred skin and he inhales sharply.

Then she catches his gaze with an expression that says “ _It’s alright. It’s alright_ ,” although she doesn’t say the words, just kisses it once more, loving and tender. The heart pounding in Jaime’s hard chest physically aches.

_This is it. This is the moment._

He doesn’t know what details Brienne will recall when this night replays in her memories, but weeks or months or years from now when the bitter winds of winter have reached the southern kingdoms and the nights are endlessly long and dark, Jaime will remember _this._

He will remember the soft feel of those lips pressing against his loathsome stump, the tenderness brimming in those astonishing sapphire eyes and the utter _sincerity_ of her gesture. And he will feel warmth even as the world turns to ice around him.

He’s staring. He can’t help it.

She smiles at him, a little shyly, and he wants to return it, but he’s so overwhelmed with emotion at the kindness of her gesture that he can’t do anything but look at that homely face he’s come to adore with his whole heart.

The intensity of his gaze must be too much for her, because she lets out a sheepish little laugh and shrugs and goes back to grinding her hips against him in a way that the finest whores of King’s Landing ought to envy.

After a few more moments of gazing up at her he groans and lifts to meet her in eager thrusts. He thinks her breath is starting to quicken and he prays she’s almost there, because he’s closer to the edge than ever.

As much as he wants to explore her strong torso with his fingertips, to knead her freckled breasts and tug at her nipples to make her gasp, he really needs to move things along.

So he slides his hand between the two of them and pushes past the hair of her sex to find the wet flesh beneath it.

The combination of his fingers pushing against her pink flesh and his cock sliding into it is enough. Within moments, she’s digging into his shoulders so hard with her nails that he’s sure she’s drawn blood, and she’s bucking against him like a wildcat and moaning his name.

She’d been riding him sitting up, but as she desperately tries to get closer to his left hand, (which doesn’t feel nearly so useless anymore) she leans her chest against him and presses her lips into his neck.

She’s shuddering against him, and he uses every stroke of his fingers he can think of to ease her along. Finally it comes, a series of waves that have her trembling like a leaf, sweat pouring down her forehead. With a final murmur of “Jaime,” she presses her lips against the corner of his mouth and falls still against him.

 _Just in bloody time_ , he thinks, because he’d been hovering on the brink for what felt like eons.

Content that her shuddering climax had chased off any possibility of her regretting this night, he thrusts up with just a few final pumps before pulling out of her and spilling his seed across his hand and her stomach.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, after his own shuddering subsides, wiping at her belly.  

She smiles down at him. “It’s alright,” she says, and shifts her weight off him, nestling in under the crook of his arm and planting a kiss on his mouth, slow and sweet with a just a little bit of tender tongue.

Then she settles her ear on his chest, just above his heart and says, quietly. “Your heart. It beats so quickly.”

“Yes,” he says, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair is damp with sweat. “Well you were a tad vigorous, you bloody minx. Are you _sure_ you haven’t done this before?” he jests.

She sits up indignantly and stares down at him, outrage written across her plain features, “Yes! Of course I hav-”

He laughs and puts a hand against her mouth, muffling her words.

“Relax, wench. I know you haven’t. I know,” he soothes, laughing softly. Then his voice takes on a husky quality as he murmurs, “And I thank you, my lady, for giving me the honor.”

She blushes at that, and he enjoys the sight of it creeping across her nude flesh. Not quite meeting his eyes she says, “I would have given it to no one else.”

“Come here,” he says, and pulls her back down to him, fitting her against his side once more. Her arm drapes across his muscular chest and traces lazy circles around his nipple.

They lie there in silence for a while, Jaime staring up at the stars and running his fingers absentmindedly over her body.  


He feels the need for sleep tugging at him, but he tries to fight it off. Brienne is soft and warm and his time with her is rapidly running out. He fights it for as long as he can, trying to savor the feel of her body against his.  


He thinks about suggesting they stay here in this little rock formation and say hang it all. _Hang duty and honor. Stay here with me until I’ve tasted every part of you. Stay here with me until the warring world burns down around us._  


Jaime thinks of her outrage when he’d tried to dissuade her from pursuing the quest for Sansa earlier and knows it’s not worth even trying. No. He doesn’t have her much longer and he must enjoy it while it lasts.  


After a while, he can no longer resist the pull of sleep.  


Just as he starts to drift off, however, he feels her hand fumbling at the breeches he’d pulled up. He lifts his head sleepily and asks, “What are you doing?”  


“What do you think?” she says, nipping his neck and slipping a hand inside his trousers, finding his cock.  


He has to laugh at her eagerness to go for another round. I think I’m bloody tired. His limp cock starts to spring back to life at her touch. _But it would seem my cock has other ideas._  


 

“Alright, wench. If that’s what you want. I hope you’ll be content to do most of the work. I’m an old man, after all.”

  
“I think that can be arranged,” she says, pressing her lips against his. He can feel her hunger for him behind it and has a strong feeling it won’t be Pod falling asleep on his horse tomorrow.  **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! 
> 
> Hope it was in-character and enjoyable. Please share your thoughts with me! 
> 
> It makes my day to hear your opinions!
> 
> One more chapter to go!


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry there was a rather large gap between chapters here. Since I last updated, I've moved to a different state and started a new job so things have been a little hectic.  
> Also, endings are hard! It's sad to say goodbye to this story, but hopefully I'll come up with some more J/B ideas soon!  
> A big thanks to the folks over at JaimeBrienne dot org for giving me the little push needed to get this finished. You have all been so sweet and it means so much!

  
  
As predicted, they regroup with Jaime's forces by midday the next day. Jaime had been more than a little reluctant to leave their camp. With only a couple of hours of actual rest, he'd been surprised to wake up ready for another tryst with Brienne.  
  
But his wench, so eager to have him inside her in the dark of night, had allowed him only a couple of less-than-satisfying kisses before she'd squirmed out of his grasp, hissing, "I think Pod's awake. We ought to move out quickly."  
  
They'd risen quickly, prepared a quick breakfast, during which she cast him secretive glances and he made bawdy allusions to their nighttime activities that had her glaring and mouthing at him to shut up. (Things like "Would you mind passing me my sword, Brienne? I know I can trust you to handle it with _utmost_ care. Oh, don't worry, my lady, I can slip it into the scabbard myself...You know I am capable of doing that _quite_ well." "Are you prepared for the riding ahead of us, my lady? I know you've been doing a _lot_ of that lately, I do hope you'll not be too tired." ... Yes, he was quite the verbal genius.)  
  
Then they'd set off, riding briskly for five or six hours until they reached the Lannister camp.

\--

There is quite a bit of uproar upon their arrival. He gets the sense that he's been presumed dead and that irritates him.   
  
After briefly meeting with his higher-ranking men and rudely telling them to mind their own business when they inquired after his whereabouts, Jaime firmly dismisses them and goes to find Pod in their makeshift training yard, wanting to make good on his promise to spar with him.  
  
The lad is engaged in fierce combat with a tall squire of some Tyrell bannerman and Jaime watches for a while, leaning up against a post and observing their sparring session. The lad is larger than Pod, but slower. But they are both so clearly _boys_ , miles behind where Jaime was at their age.  
  
As he watches, he feels a vague horror at the realization that this half-trained youth was all that stood between his brother and a violent death on the Blackwater. He's surprised the poor lad hadn't been hacked to pieces.  
  
The match is relatively even. The other squire is at least half a foot taller and much broader, but Pod is quick and sure-footed. Pod manages to dodge or block many of the other boy’s blows, but when the strong opponent does manage to hit him, it is always hard.  
  


Jaime finds himself wincing every time he sees Pod take a heavy blow and feels odd surges of pride arise in him when Pod lands a successful strike of his own. He had only known the lad a short while. He had not expected to feel any sort of affection for him, but he supposes that is what it is.

  


Bloody wench must be rubbing off on him.

  
Just as Jaime fears Pod may lose, the boy manages to get a leg behind his larger foe and trip him. He falls with a heavy thud and Pod cries out with delight.  
  
"Yield!" he says fiercely, putting his practice sword to the youth's throat.  
Jaime lets out a cheer and barks, "Well fought, young Payne! I hope there was a bit of coin involved!"  
"No, Ser," Pod says, blushing. Jaime claps him on the shoulder as the lad says, "My...my lady says it is not wise to gamble."  
  
Jaime looks up to see Brienne smiling over at them with that horsey grin he's come to love.  
  
"Pfft," Jaime says, shaking his head. "Now there's a pitfall to squiring for a woman! Bloody sticks in the mud, the lot of them. With a sword hand as fine as that, you ought not heed the wench's grumbling and take a risk. If you take care of a few more like you did this one,” he says, inclining his head to the squire who is getting to his feet, “you’ll have a heavy coinpurse by the end of the day.”  


Jaime looks at Brienne and sees, as he expected, that her smile has turned into a scowl and he laughs heartily.  


"Have a drink lad," he says, passing him a waterskin. "Then let us have a bit of sparring, if you're up for it."  


Pod's face lights up, and Jaime smiles, walking over to find a practice sword of his own.  


They get started at once and Jaime is pleased that he's at least gotten good enough with his useless left hand that he can take on a twelve year old. The lad has it in him to be a decent swordsman someday, but he is not there yet.  


"You ought to mix it up a bit more, boy," he says as he blocks a blow from Pod he could have seen miles away. "You swing the same way every time. Predictable."  


"He has a strong arm," Brienne says sharply from the sidelines where she's watching. "He has come very far since the day we met."  


Jaime rolls his eyes. "Don't _coddle_ the lad, wench." He lands a hard blow on the boy's upper arm before turning to meet her eyes. As expected, she looks outraged.  


"I'm not coddling him!" she cries. "I'm just saying, he has the makings of a-"  


"Yes, yes, a fine swordsman," Jaime says dismissively. "I'm not contesting that, wench, but he'll get there faster with fair criticism, not gentle mothering."  


"I'm not- I'm- that is-" she sputters, furious.  


"Would you be half the swordswoman you are if your Master-at-arms had held back from telling you when your moves were repetitive?"  


"No, I was just- you are just-"  


"Let me fight him as I see fit, without your interference," Jaime says, blocking a powerful swing from Pod. "You'll have him to yourself soon enough and you can train him your way." Then he turns back to Pod and says "As I was saying, lad, swinging from the shoulder like that again and again is no good it's-"

"Fine," she snaps. "Pod, you're doing very well. I'm going...I'm going to...away."

He sees her storm off out of the corner of his eye and grins, "Women."  


Pod grins back for a moment before remembering his loyalties and masking it.  


Jaime laughs and they fight on until they're both thirsty and starved.  
__________________________________  


It's getting dark by the time they wrap up and go to find Brienne. She gives Jaime a rather scornful look before asking Pod how it went.

"It was a fine match, my lady!" Pod says, eyes shining with delight. "Ser Jaime taught me this maneuver- it was- I can't remember what he called it, but you do - this- with your foot and - swing like this and it's really forceful! I nearly knocked him over!"  


Pod's excitement seems to melt her like a spring sun melts snow and she gives Jaime a reluctant smile. As Pod runs off to fill up a bowl with some stew, she turns to him.  


"Thank you," she says. "For doing that. It- it meant a lot to him."  


Jaime waves a dismissive hand, "It was nice to see what the lad who has served both my brother and my wench is made of." He likes the way her cheeks color when he calls her his wench. " And he's made of quite a bit, it turns out. Lad's got a surprising amount of skill and stamina."  


"Yes," she agrees. "And no small amount of courage."  


Jaime nods, then glances about for a moment to see who is around before sidling close to her. "So," he says, "I believe they're setting up quite the nice tent for their commander this eve. I daresay it will be more comfortable than our cave."  


Her eyes widen in shock. "Jaime! We- I hope you're not suggesting that- we can't-"  


"And why not? If you're to be around another night, there's no way I'm letting you spend it anywhere but my bed."  


She looks around in horror, shushing him, but there is no one within earshot. He takes her hand, "Brienne. It's all right. You are a high-born lady. No one will think it unseemly if you are given a comfortable place to rest away from the rest of the soldiers."  


He does not say it, but he knows no one would ever believe the handsome kingslayer has any interest in a woman like Brienne. Even maimed as he is, he is beautiful to behold, and she is not. They make a strange, unbelievable pair, but he wants her gentle hands and those big blue eyes with him tonight, and he will have them.  


"Come now," he says, glancing around again before planting a quick kiss on her cheek, "You're leaving me in the morning. It's our last chance, my lady, and there is so much more I have to teach you."  


He whispers the words into her ear, and she shudders, goosebumps rising on her neck.  


"But...but...what about Po-"  


"Your lad will be _fine_. Allow him the chance to have some fun with lads his own age. You'll have a long and lonely road ahead of you soon enough. Let him enjoy himself. And allow yourself the same courtesy."  


He sees the tension leave her shoulders and knows he's won.  


"Good," he says, kissing her ear. "Now let's get some food. Your boy demonstrated more than enough skill to help me work up an appetite."  
_____________________  


Their second night together is just as full of tenderness and pleasure as the one before, and it is enough to make Jaime wish they could keep the pattern going. There is much to be said for a soft bed, and he feels much more capable and smooth surrounded by soft pillows and blankets rather than by pointed rocks that jab at his back.  


There is a bit less desperation in their movements than there had been the previous night, for it had left them both very fulfilled. He finds himself worrying much less about lasting than he had the night before, and he takes things slow. He tastes the flesh between her thighs and loves the way she moves herself against his mouth, always wanting more. He shows her how to take him in her hand, how to run her fingers along his cock until it's hard and dripping. She does her best to keep quiet, but there are moments where she can’t help crying out his name and can only muffle it by pressing her mouth against his flesh to dull the sounds.  


It is another night without much sleep, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He falls asleep with his lips pressed against the top of her head, her arm draped around him, her warmth enveloping him and he wishes he could stop time here.  


When he wakes, she is already up, pulling on her boots.  


"What are you doing, wench?" he mumbles, wincing at the sunlight pouring into the tent.  


"We ought to head out early," she says, her back to him. "We must cover a lot of distance by dark."  


"Mmmm...don't have to...could stay another-"  


"No, Jaime," she says firmly, turning to him. He forces himself to open his green eyes all the way to meet hers. "I have to go." She bites her lip. "I have to go now, or I might never leave."  


She looks pained as she turns away again, and he knows the feeling. It's too nice. Too comfortable. She's right.  


"Alright then," he says, getting up and stretching. "You get yourself ready. I'll track down that squire of yours and have someone send in some hot food for us all. That is, if he's able to stomach any food after the night he's had. I hear one of the lads nicked a barrel of ale and-" he breaks off, chortling at her horrified expression.  


"He'll be alright. There's some good boys among the squires. They'll have looked after him," he reassures her, heading out of the tent.  


 _And by look after him, I mean they probably thumped his back a bit as he puked up all the ale they encouraged him to drink, laughing like a bunch of jackanapes_.  
  
He's surprised at just how true his guessis. He turns the corner around a couple of small tents to find a bleary-looking Pod being sick near a water barrel.  


Trying not to laugh, Jaime pats his back until he's emptied himself of ale.  


"First experience with heavy drinking?" he asks, smiling.  


Pod, looking extremely miserable, only nods.  


"A hard lesson to learn. Most have to learn it time and time again. As well you know, having served my little brother so loyally. Come on, lad. Let's get some food into you. Brienne is waiting in my tent. Think it's all out? I'll never hear the end of it if you get sick in front of her."  


"Ser?" he asks, eyes wide. "You- you won't tell her, will you? I don't think...I think she-"  


"Are you _mad_ , boy? I'd be in far worse trouble than you if she knew the extent of what you got up to last night. My lips are sealed."  


They head off to the tent, Pod's steps a bit wobbly. He seems to have found his stride a bit better by the time they make it back, which is a relief to them both. Jaime lifts the flap and allows Pod to walk in first.  
_______________________  


He decides to ride out with them part of the way. He just can't let her go yet, and he wants the chance to say goodbye to her without his men leering on. They don't say much as they trot down the road. Hard to know what _to_ say.  


They reach a place in the road where they must turn, and Jaime, who had been in the lead, slows down.  


"Well. I suppose I’d better head back. My men will have moved out by now. Have to catch them and get to fixing all those problems caused by incompetents in my absence."  


Brienne and Pod have stopped as well. She's staring at him, her eyes wide and bright blue against the cloudless, sunny sky. She nods slowly and doesn't do much to hide the sorrow on her face. It's hard to see. He thinks about just saying 'good luck, then' and riding off to avoid dealing with his own growing despair.  


No. They will say their goodbyes, as hard as they might be.  


He may never see her again and he wants her to know that he cares. As absurd as it is that this wench, who he once considered knocking on the head with an oar to be rid of, has become so very important to him, it is so.  


"Pod," he says abruptly. "I require a word with Brienne, if you don't mind."  


"Of-of course not, Ser. I'll...I'll just watch the horses," from the blush creeping up the lad's neck, Jaime has a feeling they have not been as discreet in their affections as either of them would like to believe.  


He dismounts and looks up at Brienne, still on her mare. He cannot interpret everything that's going on in her expression, but she looks somewhat hesitant, and he cannot allow that. He's not eager for goodbyes either, but he will not rob them of this last chance to...to...  


 _Well, it won't matter_ what _if the stubborn wench won't even get off her bloody mount._  


He strides over to her horse and takes its' reins, softly saying, "Come, Brienne."  


She gives a slight nod and climbs down from the horse with a surprising amount of grace for a woman so large.  


They walk off the path and into the woods some. Jaime, leading, walks for longer than is really necessary for privacy, because he's not sure what to say.  


After another minute or two, they come to the top of a small hill overlooking some woodlands interspersed with a few small farms. The sun is shining brightly in the clear sky today, and Jaime scowls at it. It ought to be miserable and dark and drizzling to adequately reflect his mood.  


He turns to look at Brienne, who is intently inspecting her boots, chewing on her lip.  


He watches her for a long moment, searching for the right words and knowing there are none to be found. Their time together is slipping through his fingers like water scooped from a stream and no amount of desperate clutching can hold onto it.  


His chest constricts as he looks at her and takes in all the scars she's gained since he sent her out of King's Landing with a sword and a letter from a boy king.The hideous marks Biter left on her cheek, the rope burns on her neck that have not faded...  


He feels a wave of panic rise up within him as he wonders what she'll look like the next time he sees her or if he'll even see her again.  


It's hell out there, and by her brazen defiance of the expectations for her gender, she is sure to bring down an excess of hatred and scorn wherever she goes. There are men who will try to hurt her, just for who and what she is. While her abilities continue to impress him every time he sees her fight, he knows there are so many countless scenarios that could lead her to a terrible end.

He clenches his hand into a fist, his jaw tight.

He cannot stop her from going, but he wishes he could.  


She finally stops staring at her feet and looks up to face him, her stunning blue eyes large and full of sadness.  


"Jaime...I-" she begins, but he strides forward, closing the gap between them and clutches her shoulders hard.  


"Take care of yourself, Brienne, alright?" he says hoarsely, giving her a little shake to convey the urgency he feels. "Look after yourself, and the boy. Be vigilant, be strong. Get it done, and then come back to me. Don't let this be-" he crushes his mouth against hers, hard and desperate, grazing against her lips with his tongue but pulling back quickly, intent on not getting wrapped up in the taste of her so he can complete his message.  


"Don't let _that_ be the last time I taste your lips."  


She looks at him, still full of pain and sorrow for a moment. Then, she smiles a surprisingly mischievous smile and says, "You have my word."  


She leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back and jutting out her jaw at him defiantly, raising an eyebrow. "See? Unlike you, Kingslayer, I _keep_ my promises."  


His mouth drops open in surprise and a bit of outrage, but then he laughs. "You know what I _meant_ , you bloody cheeky wench." He says, and swats her on the upper arm. "Now get out of here, before I have you shackled and dragged around as my personal camp follower. Go on-"  


He reaches up to shove her back towards the trail, but she catches his hand in hers and she's not smiling cheekily anymore. She's solemn and serious. She holds his hand for a moment, looking into his eyes as tears fill her own.  


Without warning, she throws her arms around his neck, pressing her face into it and murmuring, "I really do promise, Jaime. I do," and he feels the wetness of her tears on his shoulder and holds her tight around her thick waist, pressing kisses into her hair.  


Finally, it becomes too much, and he removes his hold on her. He brings his hands, real and golden, up to her shoulders and gently pushes her off him.  


"We should get back. I'll hold you to it."  


She nods, and he turns back towards the trail.  


They reach the horses in a couple of minutes and find Pod watching a couple of sparrows chase each other through an oak tree.  


He helps her onto her horse, though the gods know she doesn't need him to.  


"Be safe, my lady, until we meet again," he says, placing a hand on her thigh and looking up at the broad, homely face he's going to miss more than he can comprehend.  


"And you, Ser," she says tightly.  


He can't bear to look at her any longer, so he turns to Pod and strides over to his small horse.  


He holds out his hand to the lad and says, "Take care of her, Pod. Get the Lady back to me safely and there'll be a knighthood waiting for you on your return."  


Pod accepts his handshake with wide eyes and stutters, "Y-yes, Ser. I- I will."  


"There's a good lad," he says, and gives Pod's horse a smack on the rear to get it going.  


They meet each other's eyes for a moment as her horse follows after Pod, but not another word passes between them.  


Jaime watches them go for a long time, waiting until they're out of sight before turning back to his own horse. The loss weighs heavy on him already, and he doesn't think the fear in his gut will ever go away.  


But there's something else, too, amidst the worry and loss.  


He realizes it's something he's not felt in a long, long time.  


Hope. A fool's hope, maybe, but it's there all the same.  


The world might be going to hell and with war ravaging all the corners of the seven kingdoms it might be senseless to believe he'll ever set eyes on her again, but she had given him her word.  


Oaths have not meant much to him for a long time, but If there's a single person in all of Westeros- or the bloody world- that can be trusted to keep a promise, it is the Maid of...well, it's Brienne of Tarth.  


Smiling, he gets on his horse and heads back to his men and his duty.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is. It was not easy to send them their separate ways, but I trust Brienne to keep her promise! 
> 
> I just want to give a huge, huge thank you to everyone who has stuck with the story and given me such kind encouragement along the way. You are a beautiful community of shippers and it's so nice to have people who understand these characters so well and feel as much affection for them as I do. 
> 
> Hopefully I will contribute more and read all of your excellent fics in the future!  
> Less than two months til Season Three!!!!  
> AAHHHHH


End file.
